


Displaced

by salanaland



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, Animus Hijinks, Apple of Eden, Aquila - Freeform, Assassin history, Assassin philosophy, Bad table manners, Bleeding Effect, Buttons are the devil's handiwork, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack, Crazy Desmond, Donuts, Dysfunctional Family, Embarrassing Situations, F/M, Family, Family Feels, First Civilization, Fluff, Gen, Hallucinations, Happy Haytham, Historical linguistics, Humor, I'm just waiting for Altair's Yo Mama jokes, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Insulting New Jersey, Kenway family insanity, Kenways, Language shenanigans, Lisa Frank stationery, M/M, MacGuffins, Misuse of hidden blades, Multiple language puns, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Non-sexual bodily fluids, Penmanship, Piece of Eden shenanigans, Pieces of Eden, Put-downs, Robin Hood - Freeform, Snaps, Snark, Snuggling, Sulky Connor, The only ship here is the Aquila, Time Travel, spelling, wardrobe malfunction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:32:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salanaland/pseuds/salanaland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the AssCreed KinkMeme: http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=11254638#cmt11254638</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Desmond is bored watching dolphins and steering the Aquila. But it's not like a comical series of events is going to land him back in 1778 and set his hand on fire or anything, is it? And even if that happened, what are the chances of Haytham Kenway discovering his hidden paternal emotions and directing them at his great-great-great-great-however-many-generations-grandson? And why is the Animus sassing Shaun with such bad spelling? </p>
<p>These questions, and more that you would probably have to be using drugs to think up, might or might not be answered within.</p>
<p>Rated T for language and immature comments about sex. No relationships other than mention of past canon (Haytham/Ziio, Altair/Maria) or historical (Anne Bonny/various and sundry lovers) ones, and various OCs. There is a non-graphic underage rape scene in chapter 12 and some discussion of the topic afterwards, for those who may be triggered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reading for Comprehension

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Haytham and Connor discuss proper etiquette for Hidden Blades, and Desmond makes a shocking discovery.

As much as he tried, Desmond just couldn't get past this one memory. It wasn't that he couldn't fight, or that he couldn't synchronize with Connor. Just that every time he tried, he began flailing until Rebecca had to rescue her Animus from his wild punches, and he generally wound up falling on the floor and vomiting until the dizziness, double vision, and severe neck pain subsided. After the second day in a row he had ended up tucked into bed feeling like he'd suffered a concussion and a double handful of broken ribs, Rebecca had tentatively suggested that he revisit an older memory to get him back into the swing of being Connor. Desmond agreed fervently, and was more than relieved to open his eyes and see the sunlit ocean from the deck of the Aquila.

Desmond/Connor nudged the wheel of the ship to the left, eyed the compass, and turned a little more to port.

"Are you sure that this is the right heading?" came an all too familiar heckling voice. Desmond practically groaned.

"Yes, father, I have made sure of it."

"Tch. If you say so."

Desmond could feel Connor clenching his hands with frustration. But the Assassin bit his own tongue and confined himself to remarking coldly, "I do say so.... Did you sleep well last night, father?"

Haytham was idly eating an apple off his hidden blade. "Not really, actually." 

There was silence for a moment. Sweet, sweet silence, apart from the creak of sails and the sound of chewing.

"There's no need to gloat in silence about my troubled sleep."

"Father, it is only what you deserve for your actions as a Templar. And for someone who is always criticizing my supposed lack of 'proper British table manners'--"

"I am not criticizing, I simply want you to have an easier time of it amongst the colonists, you deserve a place there as much as among your mother's people--"

"--I cannot help but think that spraying little bits of your breakfast all over someone is hardly the height of manners, not to mention using a murder weapon to eat with--"

"--when did you become so squeamish, son? Was it before or after you used YOUR blades to clean and skin those hares for dinner last week?"

"I did not notice you complaining about roast hare for dinner, nor about the pelts that kept your aged feet warm that night."

"Aged?!"

"Yes, old man, you are over fifty, are you not?"

Haytham scoffed and turned to make his way back to his cabin. Desmond breathed the sign of relief Connor would not allow himself to. 

The day wore on without further incident, other than Connor seeing a pod of dolphins leaping through the choppy surf nearby. The wind had picked up, they were making good time, and best of all, Haytham was in his cabin, sulking or plotting evil or playing faro with himself or whatever it was that he did all alone in the cramped wooden room. Whatever he was up to, it was definitely good for his health. Connor had never keelhauled anyone nor forced them to walk the plank, but sometimes he wished he could be just a little crueler to his father.

Desmond was slipping into sleep and out of sync. His mind wandered--literally meandered below deck and into Haytham's cabin, where the older man had been writing in his journal, and was now dozing on the narrow bunk. In the dim light of late afternoon--Haytham's cabin faced the east and was now deep in shadow, and he had not yet lit the hurricane lamp hanging from the ceiling--the carefully sketched design in the open journal caught Desmond's eye.

"What the..." he whispered, moving closer. It was a perfect picture of the tattoo on his own arm. He squinted at the writing beside it, wishing he had a little more light for dealing with his ancestor's copperplate script.

 

_For some Years I have had a Repeated Dream of a Boy, or rather young Man, who has been Restrained in something like an instrument of Torture. Yet where the Iron Maiden and others produce Pain of a chiefly Physical aspect, this Chair or bed seems to torture the Brain and Heart. I have seen it cause a Fit in him, and I am Suspicious that it is inducing him to Kill. I do not think he is a murderer at Heart, I do believe that its malign Influence is causing him to contradict his Nature._

_I have not had many Dreams of his Plight in many Years; they were nearly Constant for a year while I was unwittingly courting Ziio, then stopped after she banished me from her Arms. Since then they have Returned only when I have been in the Presence of my Son, however briefly. I was Stunned to see Connor on the roof at the Boston massacre, because at First I thought him this young Man. And in Bridewell prison, although it was obvious to me that I beheld my own Son and not this other Child, I knew also that the facial Resemblance is Great._

_And so I have many more Questions than Answers. I know not who this man is, nor if he is any relation to me. I know not where he is Imprisoned, nor the nature of the Tortures being inflicted on him. And I know not how to Help him.  
_

Desmond's head reeled. Was this true? He stared minutely at the page. Yes, it was! Haytham really HAD dotted the i's in Ziio's name with teeny tiny hearts! What was he, 12 years old?!


	2. Fire Bad, New Jersey Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Haytham wins an award and Connor insinuates that his father's been to New Jersey.

Really, Haytham had done a very good job of drawing Desmond's tattoo. And despite his typographical choices elsewhere, he had apparently refrained from adding any rainbow-farting unicorns or anything. Impressed despite himself, Desmond reread the journal entry. A young man? In a chair that tortures brains? That sounded--but no, it couldn't be.

Haytham stirred in his sleep, mumbling. "Absurd... Wouldn't allow... Torture... Children... Save him..." He clutched his creepy First Civilization amulet tightly despite the thin string of saliva that had slowly oozed out of the corner of his mouth and onto the artifact. Desmond made a face. Really, he should grab the artifact and hide it somewhere that he could find in the present. But great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather spit? That was the last thing he wanted to touch. Steeling himself, summoning every ounce of pickpocketing skill he'd acquired in the Animus, Desmond carefully tried to lift the artifact. His fingertips touched the bizarrely hot metal--

Suddenly, he was shoved against the wall, his nose mashed and his forehead stuck with splinters, and Haytham fucking Kenway was dislocating his shoulder and yelling in his ear, "We had a truce, Connor! Look what you've--oh, a thousand pardons, child, I mistook you for my son."

"Yeah, well, your Father of the Year award is on its way now." Wait, if he wasn't Connor, whose memories was he reliving? Hopefully not a woman's, like that little bit there where he'd been Ziio. Pregnant Ziio.

Haytham practically picked Desmond up by the shoulders and dragged him to the faint light of the window, scrutinizing him. "You're alive! You're safe. How did you escape? Where were you?"

"Um, I'm also on fire..." Where his hand had touched the artifact, flames now followed. 

Perhaps if only one of them had tried to put out the fire on Desmond's hand, it would have worked a lot better. As it was, Desmond tried to stop, drop, and roll at the same time as Haytham tried to grab his arm and push it into his water pitcher. This ended very badly, with both of them tumbled on the floor covered in flash-boiled water. Desmond screamed as his entire arm was scalded, and yet, it was still on fire. The last thing he remembered before passing out was Haytham wrapping his heavy wool coat around Desmond's arm, and lying on it.

Connor was just starting to worry what kind of mischief his father had gotten himself into. Had he somehow escaped the ship? Taken over the world? Convinced his whole crew to join the Templars? And there was that smell--that terrifying, familiar reek of burned wood and flesh and hair that made Connor's breath hitch and his vision swim. Before he knew, he was halfway down the hill--no, stairs--racing towards his mother's longhouse--no, his father's cabin. He couldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't lose his father like this. He couldn't bear it.

Flinging open the door, Connor could hardly see anything through the smoke and steam, the stomach-wrenching reek of charred pork ( _my mother is roasting my mother is scorching_ ) but he could hear a struggle in the tiny room. "Ista!" No, that wasn't right. Not Ista, not this time. "Rake:ni! Please, Rake:ni!" Why wasn't his father responding? Was that him coughing so much? Was he doomed to watch both his parents burn to death? He waded in and promptly tripped over someone on the floor.

"Connor... take him to the doctor... his hand... and he's been... tortured..." Haytham was jacketless, his face grimy from sweat and soot, half-dragging a young man with a scorched arm. "Fire's... out... Sorry..." he added, coughing and leaning against the wall as Connor picked up the unconscious man.

He hadn't gone three paces before he heard a thump, and, sighing, turned back to drag his father along, too.

When Haytham woke up, the ship's surgeon was picking melted pieces of the young man's white jacket out of the charred flesh of his arm. Luckily, it looked like they could save all his fingers. Connor was avoiding looking at the blackened flesh, though, so was the first to see his father sit up, and promptly went over to thump him on the back rather harder than was necessary. When Haytham coughed up a rather large glob of blackened phlegm, Connor handed him a tin cup of water and waited for him to take a few sips before demanding, "So, who is he, Father? And why were you helping him stow away on my ship?"

Haytham coughed again, confused. "I don't know who he is. I thought maybe you had a twin brother you had forgotten to mention to me."

"A twin--do you think me a fool? Obviously my mother was just one in a line of native women for you--"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"You probably left her bed and went to New Jersey and found some Lenape woman--"

"I swear to you, Connor, I have never been to New Jersey--"

"Then some other village--"

"And in fact I have never shared a woman's bed since your mother sent me away--"

"A likely story!"

"--unless you count sleeping in the same tent as my sister after I rescued her from slavery, which I certainly don't."

Connor scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. "And yet, look at him."

"If he's not your twin brother, I have no explanation. Unless he's Altaïr ibn La'ahad fallen through time because of a Precursor artifact, which is at least more likely than anything you've come up with."

Connor scoffed. "And what do YOU know about Altaïr--"

This was probably the worst of all possible times for Desmond to wake up shouting in Arabic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Jersey? Really, Connor? That was a low blow. Why not just kick your dad in the crotch while you're at it?


	3. Desmond Deserves Donuts, Connor Can't Concur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Desmond is not Altair today. Duh!

It was crowded in the room--marketplace--palace--too crowded for him to breathe. "Go away! Go, get lost!" He remembered, he remembered how to figure out who he was. Count the fingers. Ten. Close the eyes. Feel the face. Clean-shaven. Feel the hair. Short. This was a good thing. He was Desmond, and he was going to open his eyes and ask for some excedrin and maybe some junk food.  
  
A man deserved donuts on his way to saving the world, after all.  
  
He opened his eyes.  
  
Two men stared down at him, faces almost identical but for the color, clad in similar jackets and hats.  
  
He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. Nope, still there. The younger man looked suspicious, the older one pitying. Okay, this was definitely a bad day for his brain. He re-counted his fingers extra slowly. Still ten. Five looked a bit overcooked, though. Face, still smooth. Hair, still short. Wait, what if--nope, everything looked normal under his shirt. But the two men were still there, now both looking slightly confused. Which was nothing compared to how Desmond felt.  
  
"What's your name, lad?" asked the older man, gently. Okay, this was really Bizarro Land. The only good thing was that the younger man seemed to agree with that assessment.  
  
Desmond wasn't sure how to reply, or even if he really was Desmond. "Umm..."  
  
"I think that you are some other bastard son of my father's that he has helped stow away on my ship for evil purposes, but he thinks it more likely that you are a man named Altaïr from many years ago, somehow appearing out of nowhere."  
  
Desmond rubbed his eyes, confused. How did one respond to that? "Your father's right, it is more likely."  
  
"I told you so, son."  
  
"How is that possible?!"  
  
"I'm not actually Altaïr, today anyway. But I..." How could you explain the Bleeding Effect? How could you explain the Animus? DNA? How could he explain it all to his ancestors, starting with the fact that they were his ancestors?  
  
"So some days you are Altaïr and some days you are not." Connor's voice was flat, agreeing with the madman to keep him quiet.  
  
"Connor! Be nicer to him, he's been tortured. You wouldn't believe it if you'd seen it."  
  
"And how have you seen it, Father? Were you the one torturing him?"  
  
"No, I... it was in a dream. Many dreams. Dreams I've had longer than you've been alive."  
  
"Then it cannot have been this man, can it? He has few scars for having been tortured for more than two decades."  
  
Haytham frowned, puzzled. "He has always looked this age."  
  
Desmond spoke up, hoarsely. "I'm from the future."  
  
"Of  _course_  you are. That is why you are not Altaïr today, because he is from the  _past_ and you are from the  _future_. Perhaps tomorrow you will be Ezio Auditore!"  
  
Desmond shrugged. "Maybe. He's pretty badass too."  
  
Connor glared at Haytham. "Is this what you are trying to do to me? Drive me so mad that I end up like him?" With that he turned and stomped out, muttering something in his native tongue.  
  
Desmond asked Haytham, "What does he have against New Jersey? I mean, there's no turnpike yet, Newark doesn't have a sketchy airport, Rutgers doesn't yet have a reputation for bullying, and Snooki is like negative two hundred years old still."   
  
Haytham's voice was strained. "I am not going to ask you what any of that meant, but how did you understand him?" 

Desmond gulped. "Um, listen, I'm really tired, what with all the time traveling and you almost shanking me and me setting my hand on fire. And it's a really, really long story and it'll probably piss you off a lot." He determinedly closed his eyes.  
  
"Were you being tortured in that chair?"  
  
"You could call it that. Haytham, I'm really tired--"  
  
"The people torturing you, putting you in that, that machine. Were they Templars? Or assassins?"  
  
"Both, actually."  
  
"Ah." A pause. "How typical." The words were barely audible, so loaded with loathing that Desmond felt sick--the pain in every careful inflection overwhelmed him so. "Well, sleep well, lad. You're safe now." And just like that, Haytham's voice was gentle again.  
  
Desmond kept his eyes shut--he had no hope of figuring out how to get out of this situation, this whole century, if he had to invent his story on the fly, trying to keep out of whatever dungeons they threw crazy people in during the American Revolution. Obviously the greatest threat to him right now was Connor, who didn't want to give him the benefit of any doubt--  
  
Was Haytham fucking Kenway actually  _tucking him in_??  
  
And despite his best efforts to stay awake and plan, he fell asleep immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After Desmond wakes up from the Altair/Maria sex dream, he looks really quickly at his left hand--cause he's counting his fingers, duh! SEE, I HAVEN'T PLAYED THAT GAME BUT I KNOW ANYWAY.


	4. Meanwhile in 2012, Donuts!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, donuts! Also, Facebook pranks, Flipper, vindaloo, Robin Hood is a poor correspondent, and the Animus is extra sassy.

Rebecca cheerily called out, "I made the donuts!" as she entered the cave, bearing a tray with two cups of coffee confectionery in one hand, and an orange and white box in the other. "Hey Shaun, I have this great idea for all the powdered sugar left over in the corners, we can put it all around Desmond's nose and take pics, and then upload them to his facebook. Whoa, why the long face? I got your Bavarian Creme."  
  
Shaun glowered at her from the computer chair. "Rebecca, check the Animus. We're not going to be pranking Desmond anytime soon. Unless we can find him." Sure enough, the chair was empty, the light dark, the screen dead.  
  
"Well, where is he? What happened? You were here, did he get up and run off?"  
  
"I, ah... was taking care of personal business, and the lights flashed, so I ran out of the bathroom." He pointed to the Animus. "It sparked and I could see glitches, but erm... by the time I pulled up my trousers to run over there, it looked like a massive static discharge, and he... vanished."  
  
"Vanished. As in, he was here and then he wasn't here."  
  
"Yes, as implied by the term vanished."  
  
Rebecca began nervously chewing at the cuticle of her thumbnail. "What was he doing?"  
  
Shaun shrugged helplessly. "Sailing. Connor had an argument with his father and then was watching dolphins. I've seen enough Flipper for one lifetime, and he wasn't fighting or anything, and I think we should throw out the rest of the leftover vindaloo from the other day, incidentally. So I thought he could hold out... of course, if you had been here... "  
  
"Oh, don't blame this on me, Mister I've Got This Embarrassing Craving For American Junk Food Please Don't Tell Desmond. I thought you could keep your pants on for twenty minutes."  
  
The Animus rebooted itself. POST, BIOS, OS. Rebecca watched it in silence, until a status message appeared.  
  
HASSHASHIN  
  
"What... "  
  
DEZMND SAFE  
  
"Is the Animus talking to us...?"  
  
NO  
EGLE  
  
"Uh..."  
  
ALTR  
  
Rebecca and Shaun frowned at each other. "Either it's got some kind of code that I didn't code, or it's spelling things really badly, which I also didn't code," Rebecca said slowly.  
  
LOK MEMRY  
  
"Who taught you to spell?" Shaun groused as Rebecca began downloading both a memory dump and the video playback immediately prior to the shutdown.  
  
NO ON  
  
"That's obvious."  
  
ANGLSH  
NO MINE TUNG  
  
"Who taught you English anyway?"  
  
MINE WYF  
  
"Hey Rebecca, do you think Frau Berliner-Mauer could have gotten in here and married the Animus?"  
  
"What the shit are you babbling about, Shaun?"  
  
"It's telling me that its wife taught it bad English."  
  
Rebecca peered over Shaun's shoulder. "It looks like it learned to spell from like the Canterbury Tales. Or Robin Hood."  
  
!!!  
  
"Fan of Robin Hood?"  
  
WNTED TO TLK HIM  
TAL HIM BE HSSN  
  
Rebecca shook her head. "No idea what you're saying, Baby. Okay, look. Right here..." She played a video clip of Desmond as Connor steering the Aquila. "Pretty boring. But see here, it starts to go hazy. Like he's desynchronizing."  
  
RBN NVR WRIGT BK  
  
"But he didn't do anything to make himself desynchronize. And he's done this memory fine, it was just to help him with the other one."  
  
MYHP RBN CNOT RD  
  
"Or maybe he just couldn't read the way YOU write."  
  
THS RLY DIFFCLT  
  
"Stop, already. Now look, the viewpoint moves away from Connor and goes down the stairs."  
  
RTNHKETON  
  
"Yeah, we can't say his name, but you can't spell, so shut it."  
  
"Shaun, I swear there's no vowel shortage in the Animus. So you see, it goes to Haytham, and it finally gets into focus now."  
  
"Well, he can't be reliving Haytham's memory, that's impossible now."  
  
EGLE  
EGLE  
egle  
  
"Ugh, seriously Haytham, close your mouth when you sleep."  
  
"Maybe he's got a deviated septum."  
  
"You're just sticking up for him because he's British."  
  
"I am not 'sticking up' for a Templar just because he's British! I'm just saying, maybe he can't help drooling in his sleep."  
  
THMSPSLNR  
  
"I have no idea what you're even trying to say, strange little computer."  
  
"So then it zooms in on the Piece of Eden, then it glitches, and then the Animus crashed."  
  
DEZMND SAFE  
  
"So you say."  
  
SO I KNOWE  
  
"You know, your spelling is really annoying."  
  
SO BE THY FACE  
  
"Did you just... sass me??"  
  
COM ATT ME BRO  
  
"That is so not Canterbury Tales."  
  
NOT DEAFE  
  
"Okay, Shaun, please, stop yelling at the Animus. There was some kind of power surge right then."  
  
EDEN DREW DEZMND BACK  
SAFE  
RTNHKETON  
YUNGE EGLE  
SAFE  
  
"He's safe... with Connor?"  
  
"Oh, goody. He's on a wooden ship in the middle of the ocean, with an Assassin and a Templar who need massive amounts of family therapy. Who knows what sort of diseases are going around? You know he's too young to have been vaccinated for smallpox. Plus, this is Desmond, what's he going to do without cellphone reception?"  
  
"Shut up, Shaun. How could he even get to Connor's time?"  
  
PIEC OF EDEN  
  
"And what exactly are you, because I'm pretty sure you're not actually the Animus."  
  
CAV  
  
"...And I'm also pretty sure you're not some kind of geological formation, either."  
  
"No, Rebecca, he didn't mean cave, he meant cavy. As in a guinea pig."  
  
PG???  
  
"You know, squeaky little rodent?"  
  
NO?  
  
"Ah, forget it."  
  
"Why are you calling my Animus 'he' anyway?"  
  
"For one thing, I thought we established that this isn't the Animus talking back to us. And for another, he mentioned his wife."  
  
"So? This is New York, this is 2012, a woman can marry another woman if she wants."  
  
YEA  
WMN CN VRAI STRNG  
AND TOUGHE  
  
"With spelling like that, we're not talking to a modern woman from New York."  
  
NIL  
TRUY  
EVTHNG  
PRMTE  
  
The lights around the walls strobed.  
  
"That wasn't creepy at all."


	5. All I Have To Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Desmond rewrites his own memories, but that's how memories work anyway.

For once, Desmond dreamed his own dream, remembered his own life. He knew it was his memory because of the television (for dvds only, of course; cable was part of the Templar Plot). He had waited until his parents stopped yelling and turned off the hallway light. Then he'd given them a good two hours to get to sleep, and another to be sure.  
  
Earlier that day, he'd prepared: Janie's older sister had just made full Assassin, made her own untraceable credit cards, and was allowed to go on missions by herself. She was both well-positioned and well-disposed to acquire the contraband the younger kids craved, and through an elaborate barter system, Desmond was able to trade three shiny pencils, a Lisa Frank notebook, and a week of sweeping Janie's house for a Star Wars DVD, a bag of Twizzlers, and a graphic novel that Janie swore would break his mind.  
  
Desmond had hidden the DVD in his math textbook, and squeezed the candy and comic book into his secret hiding place inside the couch cushion, which he had partially hollowed out for just that purpose. It promised to be a great night of sugar, pop culture, and just being a kid.  
  
Unfortunately, he forgot about the third creaky step (what normal kid had parents that purposefully loosened the floorboards in case of intruders? And who would want to sneak into their house anyway?) and Desmond could have groaned with frustration to see his father look up at him from the couch.  
  
William Miles was wearing sweatpants and a tank top, which Desmond was perfectly aware wasn't his normal sleeping attire. His pillow was at one end of the couch, along with a shabby fleece blanket. Desmond clenched his fists with frustration. His perfect night, ruined by whatever they had been fighting about.  
  
"Des, son? You couldn't sleep either?"  
  
It was best to play along. "Yeah, I kept trying to sleep. I think maybe I need a drink of water." He went to the fridge to pour himself a glass from the jug. Even if they'd been close enough to get city water, the Farm didn't approve of fluoridation. Boiling the water from the slightly untrustworthy well was near the bottom of Desmond's list of favorite chores.  
  
After rewashing his glass, Desmond padded back through the living room. His father was looking rather wistful. "Come here and sit with me, son."  
  
Desmond would really rather have snuck upstairs to listen to rap on his discman (more contraband, both disc and player) since his original plans were shot, but it was best not to argue.  
  
"Were you having more nightmares like you used to?"  
  
"No, Dad, honest. I just wasn't sleepy." He betrayed himself by yawning. "What I mean is, I lie down but I'm just thinking so much I can't sleep."  
  
"Thinking about what?"  
  
 _How much I want to get out of this crazy place._  "Just, you know, stuff."  
  
"Fire?"  
  
"Not anymore. Just stuff. Kid stuff, I guess."  
  
William nodded, and to Desmond's embarrassment, he found he was leaning on his father's pillow. It smelled comforting, like a pillow should. Like a father should. William chuckled. "How about you lie down here? Count some sheep or something."  
  
Desmond stifled a yawn. "Every time I count sheep, I end up wanting to run away and be a pirate."  
  
"A pirate? Why?"  
  
"'Sgotta be better than counting sheep all the time." He snuggled down into the pillow, and his father tucked him in tenderly, then covered Desmond with his coat. It smelled so, so comforting: a little sweaty, a little spicy, a little soapy, faintly bloody, but mostly fatherly. Now perfectly content, Desmond was out like a light.  
  
Except it had never happened that way, Desmond realized as he slowly regained consciousness. He had shivered under the ratty blanket that smelled like feet, while his father awkwardly sat at the other end of the couch reading work stuff. There had been no concerned conversation about his sleep patterns, just the irritable order of "Count sheep or something, Desmond, just please go to sleep already." And he had never ever mentioned the pirate thing.  
  
Desmond had barely slept that night, and he had never again even pretended to seek comfort from William. This whole dream had been wishful thinking, so real, so perfect, so much like what a dad should be that he could still smell it even though he was almost completely awake now. He resisted opening his eyes, concentrating on remembering how it smelled in his dreams to have a dad, not just a father. A tear trickled from each eye. Oh, that was just silly. Here he was, a grown man, a bartender and an Assassin, sniffling over a silly dream. He wiped his nose on the thick, embroidered wool fabric of his blanket--  
  
No, not his blanket.  
  
Haytham was  _so_  going to shank him, for real this time, for snotting up his jacket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gives me the sniffles.


	6. Wardrobe Malfunction (User Error)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Desmond knows a little too much, but so does Haytham.

Desmond tried to wipe away the incriminating evidence with his bandaged hand--bad, bad, very bad, terrible, horrible, no good idea. As he was waving his hand around and cursing, Connor entered the infirmary and strode grimly to him, hoisting him into the air by the front of what was left of his hoodie, and practically growled, "While you are a guest on my ship, you will treat my crew with respect. They are all honest, hard working men, no matter the color of their skin or the accent of their speech."  
  
Desmond nodded quickly. Connor continued.  
  
"You will not fight with them. You will not injure them in any fashion. You will not allow them to see your hidden blade or your tattoo. You will not ask them for anything. If you need anything, you will request it of me or my father. We can afford to spare whatever you need; they cannot." He dropped Desmond painfully on the bed and practically shoved an armful of clothing in his face. "My father and I are giving you some more  appropriate clothing taken from our own. I was not prepared for a sudden houseguest in the middle of the ocean. I see that your strange, flimsy Assassin robes were mostly destroyed by the fire, and though  _of course_  the mere ownership of Assassin trappings such as blades and robes means not that you are of the Brotherhood--"  
  
"I know the Creed--" Desmond interjected.  
  
Connor waved that away like a fly. "As does my father, yet he is the Templar Grand Master." There was really no answer to that. Connor continued, "I will allow you to wear my coat while we are aboard the ship, since you have no robes or jacket of your own. Come with me. And bring this jar of salve."  
  
Desmond hustled after him, trying to carry his bundle of clothing and the salve in one arm. Connor was certainly a lot nicer seen from inside his mind--although Desmond had to admit he had plenty of reason for suspicion and standoffishness. If he hadn't been so familiar with Connor and Haytham from his time in the Animus, Desmond would have felt quite literally lost at sea. He still had no idea why Haytham had accepted him so easily and known of his 'torture', and to be honest, that was kind of creepy.  
  
Lost in thought, he nearly faceplanted right into Connor's enormous back (how was he supposed to wear Connor's hand-me-downs? The man was built like a tank!) as his ancestor stopped suddenly. "Here is your cabin. It is next to Father's, and mine is right there. Once your hand has healed, you will need to find some way to make yourself useful. There is only room for one useless layabout on this ship." He jerked his chin towards Haytham's cabin, then actually looked less unfriendly and more disappointed. "Since he seems to feel rather paternal towards  _you_ , make him help with your bandages."  
  
Haytham called through the open door, "Connor, do you have that water I asked for? For my ink?"  
  
Connor gritted his teeth. "No, this is the Captain, delivering your  _other_  bastard son for fetching and carrying." With a sardonic smile, he folded his left hand ring finger and gave Desmond a salute that was not quite overly mocking. "Enjoy, Brother Altaïr."  
  
Desmond brought his bandaged hand to his forehead to return the salute. "I sure will, Brother Ratonhnhake:ton." Without a word, Connor pivoted on his heel and returned to the deck.  
  
Haytham looked out, his smirk better suited for a nosy housewife overhearing juicy gossip than for a middle-aged man bearing the enormous responsibility of the Templar Colonial Rite. "You should probably tell him your actual name, or he'll continue calling you Altaïr just to get under your skin. And I've seen a lot, but not your name."  
  
Desmond hesitated a minute. What were the chances that Ezio had mentioned him by name in detailed memoirs that had been made available to Haytham at any point, either as an Assassin or a Templar? "Desmond. Desmond Miles. Because it would, um,  remind me of the, uh, torture to call me Altaïr." That was true enough. He felt like his sanity was approximately as sturdy as the toilet paper that he really, really missed in this century.  
  
Haytham frowned thoughtfully. "Hmm... that sounds familiar somehow... Maybe something I've read... " Desmond silently cursed Ezio. Haytham seemed to give up after a moment of digging through his brain. "Maybe I'm imagining things. Well, go on, get settled. I'm right here if you need me, Desmond." He smiled like he was stretching muscles that hadn't been used in decades.  
  
"Uh, can you open the door for me?" Desmond gestured vaguely with his bandaged hand.  
  
As it turned out, Desmond was only able to undress one-handed. By holding his hoodie in his teeth, he could unzip it with his good hand, and he could manage his jeans and boxers just fine. He could even struggle into Connor's huge shirt just fine. The problem was the 18th century idea of undergarments. (He was trying not to think about the bit where his borrowed smallclothes were usually worn by his great-great-great-whatever grandfather. Really,  _really_  trying not to think about that.) His admiration for his ancestors' literal testicular fortitude increased immensely once he tried to pull them up. And then there were the buttons he simply couldn't manage. Lots and lots of them.  
  
 _Man up, Des, all you've got to do is ask for a little help._  Taking a deep breath, he managed to pull on Connor's jacket and tried to hold it closed with his forearm as he leaned out of the doorway. "Haytham! Pssst, Haytham!! Haytham fucking Kenway already!!!"  
  
After what seemed like an eternity, Haytham leaned out his own door, looking amused. "Hmm?"  
  
"Yeah, so, I need a little help here." The damn jacket was worse than a hospital gown. "Please!"  
  
To Desmond's relief, Haytham was appropriately impersonal and methodical throughout the whole embarrassing process, and successfully suppressed any smirks until after Desmond was decent and trying to look over his shoulders to check out his own butt. "Damn, Haytham, I gotta get me a few pairs of these for my own! No wonder Ziio was willing to unbutton all those damn buttons to jump you! My ass looks fine!" Desmond tried hiking up the jacket tails for a better view, and completely missed Haytham's momentarily stricken look that smoothed over into a thoughtful frown. "I can even put up with the buttons to look this good. Where did you have these made?"  
  
  
Haytham's frown deepened. "I don't know if that would be possible. The owner of the shop disappeared, and when I tried threatening her good-for-nothing husband for information, he shat himself as soon as he saw my hidden blade." The frown twisted into a half smirk. "I  _may_  have said a few things that implied that I was actually an Assassin. But usually that doesn't scare them that much."  
  
"The tailor, was her name Ellen? Husband a drunk named, ah, Quincy or something."  
  
"How did you know?"  
  
Desmond grinned. "She's okay, but Connor might not be too happy if you go finding her."  
  
Haytham frowned thoughtfully. "You know many things I would not expect you to know, yet you are charmingly naive and helpless about basic skills such as dressing yourself to the point of being like a child. No; don't try to explain yet. In the dreams I have had of you, you are in the machine which torments you, and then you come out of it and you sleep, and in your sleep you talk in different tongues. Different languages, different voices.... In my youth I thought you were simply well educated and knew Italian, Arabic, and so forth. But now, meeting you and finding out what you know about me, about Connor..."  
  
"Yeah, see--"  
  
"Wait, please. I have a theory, and once I've explained it, I would like you to tell me if I am anywhere close to the truth. You say you are from the future. I believe it may be true. I do not know how the machine torments you. But I think perhaps it shows you the lives of others and forces you to watch the horrors therein. I think perhaps you receive not only knowledge and skills, but also the most intimate personal information."  
  
"Uh, yeah, you could say that."  
  
"And the pain this produces is so intense that you relive it as nightmares. I know not if this is some sort of Precursor artifact capable of affecting the mind, nor do I understand why your captors chose you to be their victim, but I do know that it is a very dreadful device."  
  
Desmond sat on the narrow bunk and gestured Haytham to sit on the stool bolted to the floor. "That's pretty much it. The reason Abstergo--that's the company the Templars run in my time--put me in it to begin with, is that I have famous Assassin ancestors, and the Animus can dig out the memories of a person's ancestors--from, from their blood or something, don't ask me how--and make the person relive them." He ran his uninjured hand through his short hair. "They were looking for something in Altaïr's memories." Haytham's eyes widened at the name, then narrowed. Desmond continued. "So to get to that memory, I had to go through all the ones leading up to it, and I had to get very good at being Altaïr , or else I'd keep dying, and the machine would stop, and I wouldn't be able to get to the next one and I'd stay a prisoner of Abstergo. And have to keep going back in the Animus." He shuddered.  
  
"Was it very painful?"  
  
"A little, not too bad. But it... it makes you forget who you are. You spend ten, twelve, fourteen hours a day being Altaïr ibn La'ahad the Assassin, you forget that you're Desmond Miles, the bartender who never wanted to be an Assassin, who ran away from the crazy Assassin Farm and the crazy Assassin families in it."  
  
Haytham's eyebrows raised. "Indeed?"  
  
Desmond nodded. "And then I'd remember things that I hadn't seen in the Animus. Like Altaïr and his wife fooling around at the top of a guard tower. It was like it opened a door in my brain that I couldn't close, to my ancestors' memories, and I got not just the things they wanted to know, but everything. Languages, skills, other memories, all kinds of random stuff. Like, did you know Altaïr saw his dad murdered in front of him when he was a kid?" Desmond's eyes unfocused, and he didn't see Haytham's jaw tightening. "Oh, but then the same thing happened to you, didn't--shit, see, this is what happens. I start being people and I can't stop. I don't know if I'm in Jerusalem talking to Malik, or I'm Ezio in Florence talking to Leonardo da Vinci, or here talking to you but I'm Connor, or what." He rubbed his eyes.  
  
"And you only have these memories of... people who are your ancestors?"  
  
"Yeah, so at some point Connor has to actually start talking to the ladies or I won't exist." Absently, he reached out to make a motion of taking something from thin air, then sighed. "See, I could have sworn that was a feather..."  
  
Haytham looked at him for a minute, then suddenly smiled. "So you're my grandson?"  
  
Desmond waved a hand dismissively. "Great great something or other grandson, yes. I'll be born a little over 200 years from now. So--ack!"  _I never would have figured Haytham for a bear-hug sort of grandfather... Connor is probably more used to squeezing the breath out of actual bears, though..._


	7. Ghosts Don't Exist, I'm Just A Dead Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More linguistic folderol. And plot.

After several minutes of the lights flickering in an increasingly erratic pattern, they finally stabilized, and another message came up on the Animus.   
  
       PRDN ME  
       1000 PRDNS   
       LGH OT LD  
  
Rebecca blinked at her creation. "I don't even know you anymore, Baby..." she murmured.   
  
Shaun huffed. "Rebecca, it's clearly being affected by some malign influence. A malign influence with very bad spelling."   
  
       BT I STL LOK BTR  
       EVN THGH I LOK LK DHS:  
       1101000101111000011110100010110  
  
Rebecca frowned. "That can't be the same as the one sending those emails..."   
  
"Yeah, the email fellow can spell."  
  
       HR HR HR  
       THOU MDST A JKE  
        THOU RT SOOOOOOOOO FNY  
  
"Okay, both of you SHUT UP. Computer guy, were you the one flickering the lights?"  
  
      CLD NT HLP IT  
      JNO TRYND SHT ME DWN  
  
Shaun asked in a bored voice, "And why was she trying to do that?"   
  
      I HLPT DEZMND  
  
"Why would you care about helping him?"  
  
       FAMLY  
       KINDRD  
  
Rebecca shook her head. "No, you're a computer. Computers don't have families except in microprocessor development."   
  
      NT CMPTR  
      A MN  
  
Shaun's voice was tired. "Honestly, Rebecca, it's obvious what's happening. This cave is haunted by the ghost of Altaïr , clearly, reaching through the years to save Desmond by exposing him to smallpox and cholera, and talk to us through the Animus with ghostly bad spelling."   
  
     DN'T BE STPD  
     NO SCH THNG ALS GHSTS  
  
"Shaun, the sarcasm isn't helping."  
  
     I M MRELY DED  
     ND IT WSN'T MNE DOING  
     SNDNDE DEZMND BCK  
  
"Oh, I'm glad you're not a ghost, I was really worried for a minute that I was going crazy and thinking I was talking to a ghost, but you're just dead so that's OK."  
  
Rebecca mentally counted how many migraine pills she had left.  _Desmond better save the world before long or my brain will shoot out of my nose._  
  
"So, ah, 'Altaïr', how did you get from 13th-century Syria to 21st-century upstate New York?"  
  
   DTH  
  
"I guess all those religions are wrong, the afterlife is actually near the Finger Lakes."   
  
     IF YE BE N THE APL  
      ND YR GRNDSNS BRNG YE THR   
     DHN YEA IT BE  
  
"Rebecca, tell your computer to stop pretending to be Altaïr ."  
  
     NT PRTND   
     I   
     AM   
     ALTAIR  
     IBN  
     LA'AHAD  
  
     HW THOU LKST THM APLS?   
     I USD VWLS TO HLP THEE READ   
     SNCE THOU NDST TH HLP  
  
Shaun ground his teeth. "Well, I can totally believe you're related to Desmond, you're just as stupid and annoying."   
  
     WHS GT 0 THMBS  
     AND HTS THEE?   
     THS HSSN   
  
If she didn't laugh, she would start screaming. So it made sense to laugh until she cried, and cry until she hiccupped. "So, assuming you are Altaïr --"   
  
"We can't be sure of that!"  
  
"How DID you go from being human to being in my computer?"  
  
     MSTLY HMN  
     CN'T USE APL IF FLL HMN  
     HV TO BE PRT FRST CV  
  
     APL IS LK YR CMPTR   
     LGHTNNG  
     LK A HRT  
     OR A MIND  
     ALL BEINGS  
     FLSH BN ND LGHTNNG  
  
Despite himself, Shaun was watching over Rebecca's shoulder as the words appeared.  
  
    WHN USE TH APL  
     IT LRNS YR LGHTNNG  
     YR PTTRN   
     50 YRS LRNYNG  
     ND WHN MY FLSH ND BN  
     CLDNT HLD LGHTNNG  
     APL IN M HNDS  
     KNW MY PTTRN   
  
     WHN A YNG MN  
     I WS JST MY SLF  
     THN I WS MY SLF  
     ND TH APL  
     THN I WS ELDR MN ND TH APL  
      THN JST TH APL   
     I NOTCD NT  
     EVRTHNG EVR KNWN   
     IS N TH APL  
  
"Except vowels apparently."   
  
    THN TH APL  
    OPNED TH DR  
    ND I BCM TH LGHTNNG IN WLLS  
    DEZMND GV ME MCH LGHTNNG   
    SO I CD RECH YR MCHNS  
    EVRTHNG IS LGHTNNG   
    EVRTHNG IS SPRKS  
    YU ONLY TH SPRKS IN YR HD  
    EVRTHNG ELS JST TO MK LGHTNNG   
    KP TH LGHTNNG   
    BR TH LGHTNNG   
    HLD TH LGHTNNG   
  
    JNO IS LGHTNNG   
    HR JAR HRE  
    IS HR GAOL  
     SH NDS DEZMND   
    SH NDS TH KEY  
    KINDRD  
    ONLY FAMLY CN TO OPN IT  
    ONLY DEZMND   
  
   SH LYED  
   TO RTNHKTN  
    SH LYES TO DEZMND   
    SH WNTS TO STP HS LGHTNNG   
    TO USE HR OWN  
  
"But she's the only one who can protect the earth from the solar flare."  
  
    YEA  
     SH BRTRS HR FRDM  
     FR TH WRLD  
  
"Does Desmond know? That he'll die?"   
  
     HE WLL  
  
"He'll have to choose between his life and the world?"  
  
     HE S A HERO  
  
"You think he'll choose to die?"  
  
     I DN'T WNT HM TO  
     FMLY   
     ALL GNE BT HM  
     JNO CRS NT  
     HS DTH GIVS HR PWR  
  
"Not all gone, there's William... "  
  
"Rebecca, when did we last hear from William? On his very important mission where he was supposed to check in frequently?"   
  
"Oh shit. Well, at least we don't have to explain any of this to him yet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured our favorite Syrian with the loose grasp of modern English orthography might be giving people (such as me) a headache with his insensitivity to the need for vowels. So here's his info dump in standard spelling, capitalization, and punctuation. 
> 
> You can't use the Apple if you're fully human.  
> You have to be part First Civilization. 
> 
> The Apple is like your computer.  
> Lightning,  
> Like a heart  
> Or a mind.  
> All beings are  
> Flesh, bone, and lightning. 
> 
> When you use the Apple,  
> It learns your lightning,  
> Your pattern.  
> 50 years of learning  
> And when my flesh and bone  
> Couldn't hold lightning  
> The Apple in my hands  
> Knew my pattern. 
> 
> When a young man,  
> I was just myself.  
> Then I was myself  
> and the Apple.  
> Then I was an old man and the Apple.  
> Then just the Apple.  
> I noticed not.  
> Everything ever known  
> Is in the Apple. 
> 
> Then the Apple  
> Opened the door  
> And I became the lightning in the walls.  
> Desmond gave me much lightning,  
> So I could reach your machines.  
> Everything is lightning,  
> Everything is sparks.  
> You are only the sparks in your head.  
> Everything else is just to make lightning,  
> Keep the lightning,  
> Bear the lightning,  
> Hold the lightning. 
> 
> Juno is lightning,  
> Her jar here  
> Is her jail.  
> She needs Desmond,  
> She needs the key.  
> Kindred.  
> Only family can open it.  
> Only Desmond. 
> 
> She lied  
> To Ratonhnhake:ton  
> She lies to Desmond.  
> She wants to stop his lightning  
> To use her own.


	8. Awkward Family Dinnertime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Connor Doesn't Get It.

Dinner had been a massively awkward affair. Desmond had been 500% sure, when walking through the Aquila, that he was inching along the edge of a wall in Masyaf, which was how he learned that Connor got really cranky when his dinner was cold. Or maybe he just got really cranky when Desmond was around. Or maybe it was Haytham's fault. Or perhaps both. Probably both. Desmond really couldn't help not wanting to fall headlong from hundreds of feet up, and he really wasn't accustomed to having overlarge moccasins flopping around on his feet while he tried to keep his balance.  
  
The crew took a keen interest in the sudden appearance of a second passenger, sitting between the Captain and his father, and the least embarrassing speculation Desmond overheard was that he was Haytham's other bastard son. Some of the other theories were a lot more... icky, to be honest.  
  
Connor listened, stony-faced, until everyone had finished their stew and bread and started on the rum and whiskey course, then stood up and banged his empty bowl on the wooden table for attention. "Early this morning, we came upon a castaway, and took him aboard. My father," and here he gestured towards Haytham with a pained expression, "recognized him as his nephew, whom he had last seen many years ago and had _forgotten to tell me about_." At this, Connor shot a totally believable glare at Haytham, who shrugged innocently. Some of the sailors chuckled a little. Most of them looked back and forth between the three men, and Desmond was glad for once to resemble his ancestors.  
  
Connor lifted his cup, which had about half a shot of whiskey in it, and gestured to Desmond. "To my long-lost cousin, Desmond Miles." The crew toasted him, then started talking about absolutely everything else, deciding that a long-lost member of an admittedly secretive and dysfunctional family was not all that interesting.  
  
Haytham whispered, "You know, I don't actually have any nephews."  
  
Connor retorted, "It is called lying, Father. I recall that you are highly skilled at it."  
  
Desmond tried a sip of rum and nearly choked. First chance he had, he'd pre-invent some cocktails, time-space continuum be damned.  
  
Haytham crossed his arms. "When have I lied to you, son?"  
  
Connor rolled his eyes. "You are lying to me about him," he pointed at Desmond.  
  
"I am not."  
  
"You have told me that your 'friends' did not burn my village on your orders."  
  
"And they didn't!"  
  
"Then what were they doing in the forest, looking for small children to beat?"  
  
"I'm not sure, since I had ordered them to leave your mother's village alone and had not even talked to most of them for more than five years. But if I had to hazard a guess, they were defying my orders by looking for a sacred cave near your village."  
  
Connor scoffed. "More likely, they were looking for it on your orders."  
  
Haytham leaned into his son's face and spoke very quietly. "If I had wanted them to go there, I would simply have told them where it was. The fact that they were _looking_ at all is proof that they were not obeying my orders."  
  
"You? You know where my people's most sacred site is? _You_ , of all people?"  
  
Haytham rolled his eyes. "Yes, me of all people."  
  
"I do not believe you."  
  
"You don't have to believe it, but it's true."  
  
"How did you discover it?"  
  
"Your mother took me there, of course."  
  
"For what purpose?"  
  
Desmond mumbled, "To show him her **sacred cave** , duh."  
  
"I thought it was just to show me the markings that matched this," and Haytham pulled the amulet out from under his shirt. Desmond shied away from it, and Haytham tucked it back beneath the fabric before continuing with a smirk, "but it seems your mother had a backup plan, should I not find what I had thought was there."  
  
"And what exactly was this backup plan?"  
  
Desmond mimed sneezing. "Hormones!"  
  
"Oh, can't you guess, Connor? Honestly, sometimes I worry."  
  
Connor sulked, and Desmond really hoped he would shut up and not press any further. But, alas, Connor demanded, "I insist that you tell me, Father, because I do not believe she took you there. Prove it."  
  
Haytham thwacked his son abruptly on the nose. "Aren't you proof enough?"  
  
Desmond mumbled into his hands, "Please, Ratonhnhake:ton, drop it."  
  
"How am I proof--"  
  
"That's where you were conceived, silly boy!" Haytham threw his hands up into the air and bemoaned, "I am never going to have grandchildren."  
  
Connor's face was burning bright red as he stumbled as quickly as possible to the deck so he could steer his ship and try to forget. Haytham covered his face with his hands, laughing or possibly crying.  
  
Desmond sighed. "I guess he'll figure it out eventually, Pops."


	9. Not That There's Anything Wrong With It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Desmond has a potty mouth.

Desmond had never realized how boring life at sea could be. Sure, it was all well and good to shoot down frigates or break masts with chain shot, but mostly there was a lot of boredom. His respect for Connor had skyrocketed: it was tough enough to stand on one's feet for hours and put up with the antics of uninhibited people in various stages of alcoholism and minimal amounts of sobriety, but at least there was ample entertainment for a bartender at work, if he was good at his job. Plus, bartenders usually got to go home at the end of the night. Unless they got kidnapped in the parking lot.  
  
The most interesting thing that happened on the ship besides whale-watching was the bickering between Connor and his father. Desmond was pretty sure that that was entirely a result of cabin fever, which was setting in fairly badly for him, too.  
  
Once he had sung all the songs he could remember (not many) and knew the lyrics to (even fewer) and could actually stand to listen to (practically none), he started making up words to fill out the songs he couldn't remember. He wrote a large number of extemporaneous Foo Fighters songs with lyrics all about Haytham's taco-shaped hat that way. That took up about an afternoon, and earned him a large number of confused looks from the crew.  
  
Then he sat in his cabin and tried to shave with his hidden blade.  
  
Then he realized he was almost out of bandages for his burnt hand, and now, he also needed to bandage his face.  
  
Then he was desperate enough to snoop around for something, _anything_ to read. He discovered that Haytham was a big fan of _Treasure Island_ , which was rather surprising, and Connor had brought along a nice edition of Robin Hood, which was even more surprising. So Desmond, never having actually read Robin Hood, swiped the book to read that evening.  
  
He didn't realize how pissed off he would be at a damn book, though.  
  
"Fucking Templar shitfaced asshole bastard jerkwad!!"  
  
Haytham leaned in the cabin. "Excuse me, my parents were married. Not that," his voice lowered, "not that there's anything wrong with it." He rolled his eyes towards Connor's cabin.  
  
"Not you," Desmond fumed, "I can't believe fucking Robin Hood is all oooooohing over fucking King Richard. He's such a douchebag! C'mon, Robin, have some self-respect!"  
  
Haytham smirked. "You are not a fan of Richard the Lionheart?"  
  
"Of course not! He's all, ooh, we gotta go fight the evil heathens and reclaim the Holy Land. Well, assface, maybe the heathens are just regular people who don't fucking like you trying to steal their damn land! Maybe you should just sit your Templar-loving ass down in England where you belong! Fuckhead. Should have assassinated him when I had the chance."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Oh...uh...that was...that was Altaïr speaking."  
  
"That makes me feel so much less like I'm in the presence of a madman."  
  
"Fuck off, Pops."  
  
"Why do you call me that?"  
  
Desmond squirmed. "Um...well...you are my ancestor. But I don't want to say all those 'great's all the time..."  
  
"I do appreciate that."  
  
He half-shrugged. "I don't know. It fits. I could call you 'Templar douchebag' instead. If you'd rather."  
  
"No, I think I'll let you reserve that for King Richard."  
  
"Okay, then, you're Pops."  
  
"Then what do you call Connor?"  
  
Desmond blinked. "Um, Ratonhnhake:ton, usually."  
  
"You're just showing off that you can speak his language."  
  
"That's right."  
  
Haytham grumbled. "So, when did you learn it?"  
  
Desmond pondered. "Subjectively, I'd say about two weeks ago, but that was in 2012."  
  
"Two weeks ago."  
  
"Yeah, ever since I started being him in the Animus. Well, actually, a little _before_ , but I'd rather not talk about that. Especially not with you."  
  
"So, what is it like? This Animus. It seems very unpleasant."  
  
Desmond considered, closing the book and leaning back against the wall. "It's not _so_ bad when you're actually in it. It makes you relive memories of your ancestors. So one minute you're a modern guy, and the next minute, you're in medieval Syria, jumping off a mountain, missing a finger so you can fit your blade in. And...it's like, like a game. It's like playing pretend, or playing with toys, only you _are_ the toy, and everything you would normally make up in a game, is actually happening to you. And the better you are at it, the more real and the more right it feels."  
  
"Why were you screaming, then? If it's like a game."  
  
"I didn't want to be put in it...well, I mean, I had no idea that it even existed. I was just a bartender, I was trying to forget all that Assassin nonsense I was raised with. And then one day I got beaten up and dragged off and I woke up on this bed, trapped in place, having to relive these creepy memories of killing dudes? It was pretty messed up. And then, that wasn't even the worst, because it got to the point where, even when they'd take me out and let me sleep, I'd dream his memories, even without the Animus bringing them out." He covered his face and mumbled, "Especially that one dream. Oy."  
  
Haytham tilted his head, inquiringly.  
  
"Ahhh, um, well, Altaïr's wife Maria was all, like, running along the walls, and he was following her, and she climbed up a tower, and when he got up there they started kissing and...well...there was a nice soft pile of hay, I guess, and she got pregnant, and...yeah." Desmond rubbed his eyes. "I try not to think about it. Um...oh, hey, did you know that Maria was a Templar?"  
  
"...What?!"  
  
"Yeah, they met when she was masquerading as her lover, the Grand Master, and Altaïr tried to assassinate her, and they got into a fight, and he pulled her helmet off, and..." Desmond broke into gigglesnorts. "And then he said, 'What sorcery is this?!' which I think is about the second worst pickup line I've ever heard one of my ancestors use. And then, she escaped, and they kept running into each other, and she'd like kick him in the face when they climbed ladders together. So you see, I come from a long line of very sensible people in extremely mature relationships. Like this one time, Ezio--"  
  
"What's the worst one?"  
  
"The worst what?"  
  
"The worst pickup line. What is a pickup line anyway?"  
  
"Oh...a pickup line is, um, the kind of thing you might say to a pretty girl to try to get her to talk to you and hopefully be a little impressed by your awesomeness. Like pretty much everything Ezio ever said."  
  
"All right. So, what is the worst one?"  
  
Desmond looked out the window. "Wow, look at that sunset!"  
  
"You're avoiding the question!"  
  
"No, it's just a really nice sunset."  
  
"So...?"  
  
"Yeah...?"  
  
"So what _is_ the worst pickup line you've heard from your ancestors? And did it succeed?"  
  
"Oh, uh, yeah, it eventually did succeed. Not in making her think he was awesome, but they did get together eventually and have a kid, so, um, yeah, it worked in that way."  
  
"And what was it?"  
  
"You're not going to let me avoid this question, are you, Pops?"  
  
"Absolutely not."

Desmond sighed, and flinched up against the wall. "Okay, you ready? You're totally going to shank me for real. The number one worst pickup line that still miraculously somehow eventually worked..." He covered his face with both hands and mumbled, "It went like this. 'Me. Haytham. I come. In. Peace.'"  
  
"What?!"  
  
"Come on, it was lame!"  
  
"Well, I wasn't **trying** to 'pick her up', as you say!"  
  
"Neither was Altaïr!" Desmond shrugged. "It just happens like that! And because it's the sort of thing you remember, it's the sort of thing I relive! Because that's what I do! I'm just a bag of DNA inherited from important people, so I get shuffled from one Animus to another, and the different sides of this stupid war try to steal me back and forth from each other, so they can stuff me in their computers and see what you guys did two centuries before, because that's more important to them than me, than Desmond, than what _I_ know and what _I've_ seen and what _I_ believe!"  
  
He was practically shouting now. "I didn't want any of this! I had my life, I had my job, I had already decided I didn't want any of this, and all of a sudden I'm back in the middle of it! Do this, Desmond, be this guy, tell us what you find, so we can use it for our own purposes. Who cares what you want? Who cares if you go crazy? Who cares if you don't know when or who you are? Who cares if you go into a coma? Who cares if some creep from tens of thousands of years ago possesses you and kills the woman who was trying to keep you from going crazy? That doesn't matter, because **she's a Templar!** " He made spirit fingers for emphasis. "Woooo, a Templar! That's so much more important than whether she was a good person or if she was helping me or if I liked her, because obviously when the world's about to be a charcoal briquette, we can totally _afford_ to just _kill people who are trying to stop it_. Let's keep up our little grudge match while the world burns around us! And it doesn't even matter if I go insane, as long as I get more useful! And by useful, I mean, good at killing people."  
  
Haytham blinked, mildly alarmed.  
  
"Do you know what happened to the last guy, the one before me? He went so nuts being Ezio and everyone else, that's right, he's some distant cousin of mine if that makes you feel any better, he went nuts and committed suicide. But that's not all!" Desmond gritted his teeth. "Before he died, he decided--because he knew about me before _I_ knew--to leave me messages that only I could read with my Eagle Vision. Because he figured once I went a little crazy I'd pick up on how to use it. And I did. So how did he leave me messages? In blood. On the walls." He gestured wildly around the tiny cabin. "They cleaned them up, of course, but all I had to do was look, and..." He shrugged. "Clay was a smart guy. Maybe if he hadn't been pushed too far, he'd still be a smart guy. Maybe he'd still be a guy, anyway, instead of a corpse."  
  
"The weight of memory was too much?"  
  
"Yeah, Abstergo's not really good with preserving the test subject. They figure the Father of Understanding guides them to shred people's brains in the Animus. So I got rescued by some assassins, and what do they do? They tell me, hey, we've got an Animus too now! Rebecca thinks it won't make you crazy as quickly, so here, be Ezio. And then I found the apple and killed Lucy and went into a coma, and my dad showed up and basically said, hey, let's try putting him in the Animus and see if that helps with the crazy caused by putting him in the Animus."  
  
" _Your own father_ put you into this torture device, knowing what it does to people? What it did to _you_?!"  
  
"Dear old dad, yep, he sure did."  
  
Haytham recoiled, looking disgusted, and sat down on the small chair.  
  
Desmond shrugged. "He's got all the fatherly instincts of a goldfish. He's the reason **you** don't win a Father of the Millennium Award. And, he's been leading the Assassins since I was like 14. Isn't that just wonderful for me? Cause let me tell you, there's a bunch of Mentors in our family and he is, like, sooooo much better at Mentoring than, like, Altair, Ezio, and Connor combined. He's tops, Pops. Oh yeah. The best. Two thumbs up." He raised his middle fingers for emphasis.  
  
"And then, what's even better is that now it's not enough to have Templars throwing me into the Animus, and Assassins throwing me into the Animus, now I have to use it to help this scary First Civilization creep who is manipulating everyone. Because that's exactly what I wanted to do, become even crazier by helping out this bitch named Juno, who by the way is the one that made me stab Lucy. And--"  
  
"This Juno is the same one that told me to become an Assassin?" Connor interrupted from the doorway.  
  
"Yes, and hasn't it brought you so much joy? Hasn't it done so much for your village?"  
  
Connor looked down at Desmond dispassionately. "How am I to believe your story?"  
  
Desmond considered. "She took the form of an eagle when talking to you. And she made you take the same form." He could tell that Connor was startled, although his face was impassive. "The last thing your mother said to you was that she loved you."  
  
"That's easy to guess," Connor objected.

  
"True! Let's see. That morning she had caught you reading a book that you then hid from her." Desmond realized peripherally that he and Connor were talking in a speedy mishmash of languages, and Haytham had a politely quizzical expression. "I'm pretty sure I couldn't read when I was four years old." By saying that completely in English, Desmond was rewarded with the brief sight of Haytham looking momentarily proud of his son. Which was pretty cool, and made Desmond feel good about himself. This was what normal families did, right? Brag about each other? If he couldn't have a normal family life with his own father, he could at least pretend here and now.  
  
"All right, so let us suppose that you are telling the truth." Connor was a lot more formal speaking in English, Desmond noticed. "You have come back here from the future to...what?"  
  
Desmond shrugged. "Hell if I know. I was reliving a memory of yours and all of a sudden, BAM, I'm in Haytham's cabin with my hand on fire."

"What exactly had you done before your hand was on fire?" It was like getting Rebecca to fix his email account.  
  
"I touched the doohickey."  
  
"The...?"  
  
"The thingy! You know, the whatchamacallit. Your dad's jewelry. It's a piece of Eden. I'm trying to find out where it winds up so I can retrieve it in my time."  
  
"This is to..."  
  
"Save the world."  
  
"Indeed."  
  
Desmond figured he was making progress. Connor now seemed to believe that he was from the future, although possibly that he was a madman from the future.  
  
"Then we must find a way to return you to your own time."  
  
"What?!" Haytham objected surprisingly strongly. "Son, don't you realize, he's in _danger_ in his own time!"  
  
Connor stared blankly at his father. "Every time is dangerous for an Assassin."  
  
"Yes, but you have no idea how awful it is, what they do to him! That chair thing...it's not right, I'm telling you. At least now there's no chair of doom."  
  
Connor retorted something, but Desmond's jaw had slackened and he was staring off into the middle distance. He was in Masyaf, he could see Malik's head in Abbas's hand--horrified, he gaped, he backed away, he readied his blade for revenge.  
  
"Father," whispered Connor, "he is clearly ill. We must do something before he deteriorates further."  
  
Now he was smelling fire, fire, all his nightmares were fire and blood. And all his fire dreams were big, towering wooden walls and grownup furniture, and him too small and too weak. "No, no, no," he whimpered. "I have to protect her. Mama, Mama, no, let me go!" Someone was holding him back, and this was _wrong_ , he was _supposed_ to help her. He struggled against the two pairs of grownup hands holding him back. How could they betray him like this?  
  
Connor thought he had Desmond safely pinned to the wall, but then he happened to glance at his father's face. Haytham looked a few decades older, shocked and shaken, his face the mottled grey of ashes. His hands shook, and his grip on Desmond slackened enough for the younger man to wriggle free and make a break for it, except that Connor was filling the doorway, and adeptly put Desmond into a half-nelson.  
  
"Connor! Stop it, you're hurting him!" Haytham chided, which Connor thought highly unfair--his father hadn't just been shoulder-rushed by a deranged Assassin.  
  
"Fine, then, you deal with him!"  
As soon as Haytham wrapped his arms around Desmond to hold him in place, Desmond sighed drowsily, clutched Haytham's coat, sniffed it, and practically collapsed onto the bunk. Connor stared incredulously at his father, who shrugged. "I don't know, son, I just don't."  
  
"He is mad."  
  
"We can't send him back to the people who are destroying his sense. You didn't hear what they did to him, you haven't seen it like I have."  
  
"Yes, but we also cannot keep him on my ship."  
  
"He's not trying to jump overboard. He must know somehow he's on a ship."  
  
"Yes, but how long until he forgets?"  
  
"He's family, son, he's _our_ family. We can't just abandon him, or send him back to be tortured!"  
  
"Nor can we allow him to hurt himself. Have you forgotten why we are taking this little cruise together, Father? We have work to do, we must track down Benjamin Church. It is not for the scant pleasure of your company, or for finally having a fanorona opponent I can actually defeat."  
  
Haytham huffed, annoyed. "What do you propose we do, then, son?"  
  
Connor sighed. "I will find some island where someone can watch over him until we have finished with Church. Then we will take him back home and decide what to do once we are there."  
  
Haytham frowned. "I don't like the idea of leaving him with others." He was trying to walk out of the cabin, but Desmond was whimpering sleepily and hanging on to his coat.  
  
Connor eyed his father, amused. "Then I propose you stay here and...cuddle him?" Haytham made indignant noises, but Connor raised his voice. "You have a calming effect on him, you know far more than I what he has suffered, you have more of a rapport with him. You are the obvious choice." It was probably Haytham's imagination that Connor looked wistful. "What do you suppose he was seeing that scared him so?"  
  
"Memories. Mine, yours, Altair's, Ezio's, whoever else's. I'm supposing that he was reliving my childhood there."  
  
"Interesting, I had thought he was remembering my mother dying." Connor almost managed to keep his breath from hitching.  
  
"And I thought he must be reliving the night my father died."  
  
Silence stretched awkwardly until Connor asked hesitantly, "How old were you?"  
  
"It was the night before my tenth birthday."  
  
"I was four."  
  
"Our family has no luck."  
  
"Our family has many enemies, including _each other_."  
  
"I swear to you, son, I gave no orders about your village other than to stay away."  
  
"Why would you give such an order, if the sacred cave was what you sought?"  
  
"Because I loved your mother."  
  
Connor folded his arms in disbelief. Another uncomfortable silence, then he asked, "How did your father die?"  
  
Haytham sighed and readjusted Desmond, who was currently draped across his lap like an overtired toddler. "Mercenaries broke in, and they managed to kill my father, but when they went after my mother and me, I killed one, and...a friend killed another." He leaned glumly against the wall. "I will tell you the full tale sometime. It is sordid and full of melancholy." He smoothed Desmond's short hair absently.  
  
Connor watched his father for a moment, and sighed. "I have the feeling all our family stories are sordid and full of melancholy." With that, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor dialogue edits 1/21/14 for better canon compliance.


	10. The Time Is Now 2 AM, Do You Know What Your Name Is?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Desmond is a little dense, and Connor is probably going to be a good mentor once he's older than 21.

Desmond woke up in the middle of the night. Despite the horrible post-Bleeding-Effect feeling of having his eyeballs turned inside out with knitting needles, he felt strangely content. Taken care of. It was that smell again, the soothing smell from his dream, the smell that had never existed. Which meant he was going crazy, as usual. Plus, he could hear someone in the room with him, so he suspiciously peered through slitted eyelids.

"Dammit, I am SO sick of fucking Templars fucking watching me sleep!!" Waves of irritation rushed through him, not even directed at Haytham, more at his memories of Vidic staring at him, ready to pop him back in the Animus and turn his brain into mush. "Get the fuck out!"

Haytham eyed him, as if debating whether it was safe to leave him. "Do you know what your name is?"

"It's Desmond 'Get-The-Fuck-Out-Of-My-Room' Miles! Now scram!"

Desmond curled up in his blankets as Haytham left, and mumbled, annoyed, when he realized that the comforting smell was gone now that he was awake. Typical, his brain playing tricks on him again.

Haytham woke up when the sky was beginning to lighten, but only because the ship's cat had climbed into his lap and started purring and kneading his calf muscle right through his trousers. He petted her sleepily, pulled himself up from the floor, and leaned against the wall to keep himself upright so he could watch over Desmond.

Less than half an hour later, the cat was comfortably ensconced in his lap again, dozing off after a busy night of eating rats. He cradled her close and kept snoring softly, not noticing when she worked a button off his coat.

Connor woke up at dawn with a splitting headache. He'd had only his usual sip of whiskey the previous night, and even though he had never really gotten used to it, he usually didn't get a hangover anymore. He only even drank it because it did keep away embarrassing digestive problems at sea. Desmond had informed him a few days ago that even the clearest water actually was a stew of tiny little creatures determined to make one sick, and that a little alcohol was a very good thing for killing the tiny creatures. But, he always added, the rum from this time period was foul and practically undrinkable, and he was going to figure out some way to fix that.

Gradually, the thump and clack of wood against wood became louder, and Connor's headache intensified. He peered out of his cabin to see Haytham and Desmond fencing with wooden practice swords. Here was a chance to see how skilled Desmond actually was, and a distraction until his head stopped throbbing.

After about a quarter of an hour, Connor decided that Desmond was all right, although nothing special. Haytham seemed to come to the same conclusion and stopped the practice. Desmond grinned. "I was just getting warmed up, Pops. That's the way I learned to fight when I was a kid."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, I picked up a little more here and there." Desmond's stance suddenly shifted, his blade movements were more focused on the edge of the sword. He sprang at Haytham, batting the other's practice sword out of the way, and the older man had a hard time blocking them all.

Desmond stood up straight again, his eyes strangely blank. Now he used the point of the sword, he focused more on defense, he crouched a little to make himself smaller, then stood up proudly when attacking.

Another switch: his eyes rolled to the side, and he had a different style. Another blank look, and Connor was highly amused to recognize his father's own style.

Haytham was beginning to tire, but seeing his own style, he managed to weave in one or two sharp taps on Desmond's hand. Desmond pushed his way inside Haytham's guard, his eyes flicked to the other side, and he suddenly reversed the sword and whacked his ancestor with the pommel. Haytham sank to the ground, dazed. "Uhhh...that was...unusual." He was sure to have a lump from that.

"Father, look, he is in distress again!"

"I'm not doing too well myself."

Desmond shook his head. "I'm fine, it's just...something...I don't...ugh..." He stared at Connor until the world made a little more sense. "Better. I... Sorry."

"If you keep having these fits, lad, we can't let you fight."

"It'll be okay. Honest. It doesn't matter who I am if I'm just fighting. I have all these great fighters. Just point me at the creeps."

Haytham and Connor looked at each other, dismayed.

"Look, I trust you two. You're both blue to me. If my brain is falling apart I trust you to do my thinking."

"What if I ask you to kill my father? You must think for yourself."

Haytham folded his arms and scowled.

Desmond's eyes widened. "But, no! You've been getting along with him. You don't really want to kill him, right?" He started to hyperventilate.

"Want and need are not always the same thing."

"Plus my son can get very annoying."

Desmond backed away, looking back and forth at them in consternation. "But... you don't... I don't want... don't make me..." He was creeping along the wall, heading for the deck. "I won't, I won't."

"What's your name now, lad?"

"It's still Desmond, and it's not crazy for me not to want you to kill each other, and it's really not crazy for me to want not to be in the middle of it all! I may have to be part of this dysfunctional family, but that doesn't mean I have to be part of... padr--, par--, of killing your own father!"

Connor smiled, a tight and guarded expression. "Good, so you would rather think for yourself than be a sword for hire."


	11. 1337 Assassin Super-Hax0rs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Altair's horizons broaden.

Rebecca emerged from her super-hax0r isolation, not to be confused with super-hax0r naptime, to find Shaun grinding his teeth like a disapproving rabbit. 

"Please tell me you found something. Please tell me that the last four hours of my life were spent babysitting Altaïr for a good reason. Please tell me that someday, somewhere, I will be able to listen to West Side Story without flying into a murderous rage."

Rebecca blinked. "West Side Story?" Then she recognized the music coming from Shaun's laptop speakers, and glanced at the Animus. 

     MARIA  
     I JST MT A GRL NMD  
     MARIA

     MARIA  
     MARIA

"I offered to help him find other songs about women named Maria. I know there must be loads. But this is the only one he's interested in. Over and over and over."

     MARIA  
      MARIA MARIA MARIA  
      MARIA 

"I can totally tell you're related to Desmond."

    HW  
    GD TST N MSC?  
    HNDSM FCE?  
    LEET HSSN SKLLZ?

Rebecca was going to explode face first from not laughing.

"No, because you're almost more annoying than him!"

"Shaun, why don't you go take a break, I'll see if there's anything more I can hack from Abstergo, and then we can figure out what to do about Desmond and William."

"No, we need to figure this out now. We need the key, the key is in Connor's memories, we need Desmond to get to Connor's memories, or else there won't be any me or you or Assassins or Templars or anything! And if we can't get Desmond we need to find William or else we're totally screwed!" 

"Right, but Shaun, you're going crazy. Don't you just want to get away from Altaïr?"

     HE LVS ME

"Yes. Yes, I do want to get away from Altaïr. Very very much."

     HV FN  
     NOVC 

After Shaun had stomped away, Rebecca made herself comfortable at the computer and started trying to break into Abstergo's surveillance cameras. While waiting on a particularly slow refresh, she pulled up some mp3s and started making a playlist for Altaïr. He was going to experience different music or she would die trying. Probably at Shaun's blade, at that. "All right, I think you'll like this one. But don't play it around Desmond."

     WHY

"He'll make, um, inappropriate comments. Because it's all, 'How do you solve a problem like Maria?' And he'll be like, 'hur hur I'll tell you how Altaïr solves a problem like Maria!' And then he'll imply something sexual and crude."

   ...  
   BT WE DD HV ENRMS AMTS OF LV  
   MNY NGHTS  
   MNY MRNS  
   MNY DAYS  
   OUR SNS WHLED AWY MCH TME  
   WTH UNCL MLK AL SYF  
   ND WE FCKD LK CNYS  
   PN INTNDD

Rebecca blinked, trying to find the pun, then smiled a little sadly. "You adored her, didn't you?" She added a few mushy songs to the playlist. 

  YS  
   STL DO I ADR HR  
   SM MN WNT A WMN TO SRV THM  
   MARIA WS MY EQL  
   MY OTHR HLF  
   IM A STRNG MN  
   I CLDNT LV A WK WMN  
    HW CLD WE UNDRSTND ECH OTHR  
    IF WE WRNT BTH STRNG

"You're really enlightened for your time, you know that? Actually, you're ahead of most men in this time."

    WHT  
    THT ABSRD!!! 

"Couldn't have put it better myself."

   700 YRS?! 

"Yep. Some guys think women are just there to bring them sandwiches and beer. I used to argue with people on the Internet, but if they knew I was a girl they'd just insult me. Or threaten me."

   ND NBDY HRTS THM? 

"Nope. Nobody even takes them seriously."

   DSGSTNG

"You're telling me. People think that it means nothing because it's on the Internet. But people really do get hurt. I've known a couple of them...hey look, you're in a computer, how good are you at hacking?"

   I HV NVR TRID IT

So she patiently introduced him to Abstergo's security systems, and showed how to evade them. Before long, there was an Assassin from the Crusades poking his way through everything he could find on Abstergo's servers while Rebecca tried to outwit their firewall. 

   WHO IS ERUDITO

"Huh?"

    IN SRVR NOW  
    BYPSS BFFR OVRRN PRTCTN  
    NW IN RAM  
    THN BFFR RFLL WTH  
    "Greetings, scholar, from the Erudito Collective!"  
     WHT SY I

"I don't know. Introduce yourself?"

    AM I NT SCRT? 

"Honestly, Altaïr, being you is the perfect pseudonym. Nobody will ever believe you. Did you find the password file?"

   YS  
   CNT DECRPT

"That's okay, they're usually a trapdoor encryption, just install the backdoor."

   ERUDITO  
   SYS  
   "Tsk, tsk. Naughty, naughty! Through the back door!  
    You have certainly shocked us today, Mentor. We like it."

"Maybe they actually believe you. Weird."

     THY SY  
     "We know another Mentor. We see him right now.  
      But we like you much better."

"They can see William?? Where is he?"

     WHO IS 17  
     ND 16  
     HV THEY NO NMS? 

"17 is what Abstergo called Desmond, Subject 17. 16 is Clay, a friend--a friend that infiltrated Abstergo, and they put him in the Animus. And it, it killed him. It drove him mad. The Bleeding Effect."

    IT MKS WOUNDS  
    IN TH MND  
    IT BRKS DWN TH WLLS  
    TH LGHTNNG BOUNCS

Rebecca surreptitiously wiped her eyes. "So, anyway, it's probably better for Desmond to be vacationing, wherever and whenever he is."

   YS  
   FR HLTH

Rebecca nodded, and solemnly bent over her computer, searching for William Miles, imprisoned somewhere by Abstergo. 

    HY  
     LK! 

Her screen was suddenly hogged up by a video image, a man sitting in a room, on a bed, with his head in his hands. 

    LK WHT I CN! 

The image was odd, black on dull gray enlivened only by a haze of white here and there, and a blue shimmer over the man. "Is that... is that Eagle Vision, Altaïr?" Was this what Desmond saw? This strange world of intention and concealment? 

   YS  
   TH MCHN DD NT KNW HW  
   SO I SHW IT

"Are you telling me that you changed the security camera firmware and the display drivers to access Eagle Vision, your genetic abnormality inherited from the First Civilization, when nobody even understands how it works?"

   MYHP  
   IS JST SPRKS  
    DFFRNT WY TO SGHT  
    SPRKS ALWYS THR  
   MST PPL HDS JST DNT KNW HW  
   TO THNK THM TO PCTR

Rebecca facepalmed as Shaun emerged from his snooze corner. "Are you saying that you just gave Abstergo's cameras the ability that gives us an advantage? Well, some of us?" he asked disapprovingly. 

    WLL I CN TK BCK  
    THY DNT CR  
    IF THY WNT EGLE VISN THY CN  
    ALL ANMS MEMRS IN SRVRS  
    JST HV TO TK ME APRT  
    ND FND HW IT WRK

"Wait! Don't take it away yet. Can you do filtering based on the data from the Eagle Vision filter? I mean, make anyone that's blue not show up in the usual view?"

"If someone from Abstergo looked at the Eagle Vision view, would they see their allies or ours as blue?"

   I DNT KNW SHN  
   LTS KDNP A TMPLR ND RN TSTS

"Oh, if we're _kidnapping Templars_ I'll just defer to your expertise. Just be sure to catch another attractive one."

"Shaun, can you just not?"

   I SHLL JST TORTR YE IN STD

Rebecca resigned herself to the tinny sound of "Maria" blasting through Shaun's inadequate laptop speakers until, probably, the apocalypse. "Um, guys? Idiot assassins? Altaïr found William. Shouldn't we go and get him? Maybe somehow sorta save the world a little bit? Or at least try? Since we don't know where Desmond is?"

   I KNW  
    RTNHKETONS BT  
    1778

"Okay, so we know but can't get there. But even if we could, wouldn't Desmond want us to save his dad?"

Shaun rolled his eyes. "Are we talking about the same Desmond here? Yea tall, annoying, stupid, scar on his lip, little bit crazy, avidly follows the Kardashians, hates his dad?"

    HS FDHR PNCHD HM 

"That too. Look, I think that, um, on the all time list of assassins with the best relationships with their fathers, Desmond ranks even behind Connor. Whose father was a Templar. Just to remind you."

Rebecca made an aggravated noise. "We should do something! I can't just sit here and listen to you two insult each other until the end of the world!"


	12. Desmond's Job Skills: Hitting People and/or Getting Them Drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is Too Much Information, much of it unwelcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for the second half of this chapter--non-graphic underage rape scene. I have made the text blockquoted, because I can't make it red without mucking with CSS which I don't have time to do right now, so if it will bother you, please, skip past the blockquoted text. Additionally, if even non-graphic and fairly oblique discussion of the topic will bother you, once you reach the blockquoted text, simply skip to the last line of the chapter. Up until the blockquoted text is safe for everyone afaik.

The crew of the Aquila loved their captain. Sure, he was a quiet and sober fellow, not like the flamboyant pirates at the start of the century. He was always properly attired, always alert at the wheel, always working hard, no less than he expected of every crewman. And the lack of wild, rum-sodden parties on his ship was more than made up for by the huge amount of loot they tended to collect, which was always distributed equally among the crew, with the captain taking at most the few pennies left over.  
  
  
Even when there was no bounty, he paid them well, made sure that they and their families never lacked for anything, even the families of those few who had been killed or crippled under his command.  
  
  
Sure, he brought his stuck-up Brit of a father aboard the ship, but not a man among them couldn't sympathize. Who didn't have a lout for a father, a Redcoat for a brother, a mother who sipped a little too much wine, or a sister who was no better than she should have been? Family was family no matter how awful. And for a snob, he wasn't so bad. He didn't actually seem to look down on them, it was just the way he carried himself, self-assured and very proper. Until someone challenged him to a game of fanorona. He never passed up the challenge, and never, ever won.  
  
  
The best part of beating Haytham Kenway at board games was that he secretly possessed a mouth so foul any ship's captain would have been proud.  
  
  
Except, of course, for Connor, who never responded to his father's swearing with anything other than an amused smirk and folded arms. And then he took several of his father's pieces in one lengthy move.  
  
  
Haytham huffed, "You know, son, when other boys were learning to play these games, I was practicing at swordplay for hours a day."  
  
  
"And when _I_ was that age, I was learning how to hunt. However, I have _still_ beaten you twenty-three times in a row."  
  
  
Desmond looked over from where he was keeping an eye on his potentially rowdy ancestors, while also mucking about with rum, limes, and some herbs he'd had Haytham wheedle out of the ship's doctor. He tried a bit more mint, then made a face. Mojitos were far from his favorite drink, but the Aquila carried ample amounts of rum and limes, so it was something to start with. The problem was that the rum tasted like the smell of industrial solvents.  
  
  
Desmond knew that crappy vodka could be improved by filtering, but not only was he trapped in the 18th century with no Brita pitcher, he wasn't sure what it would have done to the good parts of the flavor. Assuming there were any.  
  
  
He found the cook humming to himself, scraping something crusted on the inside of a pot. That was a little gross, he had to admit. "Um. Hey."  
  
  
The cook turned, and smiled cheerfully. "Ah, Captain Connor's cousin! What was your name? Damon?"  
  
  
"Desmond. I was wondering if I could have some charcoal from your stove? Just a handful. And, do you have, hmm, any cheesecloth, and string? And maybe a pitcher or two? I'm trying to make the rum taste better."  
  
  
The cook bustled around. "I can let you borrow this pot with the broken handle... Some charcoal is no problem... Here's a pitcher... Twine... I don't have any cloth for you, though. Here, you can use all this."  
  
  
Desmond smiled widely. "Thanks! This is really helpful."  
  
  
"A word to the wise. If you make the rum taste too good, then they'll just drink more of it."  
  
  
Desmond nodded. "I used to tend bar back home. Don't worry, I'll cut back on their rum and they'll never notice cause it tastes so good. Do you have some sugar?"  
  
  
He had never constructed a charcoal filter before, and his first two attempts resulted in muddy gray rum. Then he remembered his half-destroyed hoodie. He'd cleaned it as best he could, although the fire smell still lingered. One trip to his cabin, ten minutes of frustrating sawing with a hidden blade not meant for the task, and he had a sleeve that he filled with charcoal and tied off. Pounding on the charcoal reduced it to fine grounds, and by tying it loosely over the pitcher, he was able to pour the rum through, and ended up with a faintly smoky liquor that was infinitely less foul. He set more to filter, then started working on his simple syrup, which he was going to make half strength to better hydrate the crew and decrease hangovers. It wasn't like they knew what a mojito was supposed to taste like, anyway.  
  
  
While he was working on the syrup, he found Haytham trying to observe him secretly. "So, Pops, did you fail sneaking class and flunk out of Assassin school? Is that why you became a Templar?"  
  
  
Haytham snorted. "I never knew that I had even been _in_ Assassin school until long after my father died."  
  
  
Desmond stirred the water and sugar, the wooden spoon in his hand almost, _almost_ turning into a practice sword, and if he turned around, a blond man with a gait still rolling after a decade on land would tell him to parry and dodge, stab and twist... _No_. He looked out of the corner of his eyes, and it was Haytham standing there, grown up Haytham, dark hair turned gray, hat instead of hood, stolen blade on his wrist. _Pops_. Standing there, watching Desmond patiently, waiting for his mind to return to 1778 from whatever year it had been in, past or future. "Hold on a sec, Pops, you can be my first guinea pig."  
  
  
Haytham frowned. "I'm a small, very loud pet?"  
  
  
Desmond chuckled. "No, in my time we use them, well some people do, in medical experiments. So we say someone is a guinea pig if we test things on them that could be unpleasant, like new drink recipes." He checked the syrup. Almost cool enough.  
  
  
Haytham offered, "You know, I had one. A guinea pig, that is. Well, he was Jenny's, but she let me pet him. It was a way of keeping me out of her things, I suppose. And if I talked to him, I wasn't talking to her, which I'm sure she appreciated."  
  
  
Desmond imagined Haytham as a small boy, enthralled at the chance to cuddle his sister's guinea pig, petting it with chubby fingers while it squeaked up a storm. It was very hard to see that little boy in the man standing beside him.  
  
  
Connor found Desmond just as he was putting finishing touches on the first three cups. He handed them to his ancestors, and sipped his own drink. It was okay, better than the industrial-solvent rum on its own. Haytham nodded, and Connor shrugged. Desmond would have liked some ice in his, just like he would have liked cell phone reception, antibiotic ointment, sanity, and tomato ketchup. But he couldn't get any of them, not in the 18th century, and he was quite grateful that those were the extent of his worries.  
  
  
  
He was very aware that if he hadn't had the good fortune to end up in the company of his ancestors, particularly one who knew some of what he had gone through and much about the First Civilization and their crazy artifacts, he could have been killed or locked up as a madman--which he supposed he technically was sometimes. Instead, he got to tend bar on his great-great-whatever-grandfather's very own actual pirate--well, privateer--ship. Sure, there was a much higher risk of dying from smallpox or cannon fire or drowning than his old job. But, to make up for it, Connor and Haytham and Faulkner were much better educated and more interesting to talk to than any boss or co-worker that he had ever had, or most of the Assassin families on the Farm. Which was sad, that over two centuries worth of human learning didn't make people any more educated or smarter.  
  
  
Two centuries worth of human learning had, however, produced the rejoinder "Your mom," which Desmond had thoughtlessly snapped at Haytham one day. That led to an hour or more of explaining the use and subtleties of the insult to both Haytham and Connor. And, the next day, during their second hour of late-morning father-son bickering, when Connor had snidely pronounced, "It seems your tongue has tasted sour grapes," Haytham put his newfound skill to use.  
  
  
"Your mom!"  
  
  
Connor literally stumbled and collapsed from hysterical laughter, and Desmond sprang up to grab the wheel as Connor writhed on the deck, pounding the boards with his fist as tears streamed down his face. Haytham cautiously approached his son, looking worried. "Are you..."  
  
  
Connor's face was brick red from laughing so hard, but he managed to say, "I certainly hope you did, but please do not tell me the details!" before rolling around in fits of laughter.  
  
  
Desmond was having a hard time containing his own amusement, and tried to muffle his cackles with his elbow. Especially at the look of blank incomprehension on Haytham's face. "Uh, Pops, I probably should have mentioned this, but, uh, it sort of gets awkward if you say 'your mom' like that to someone whose mother you've actually _been_ with, and everyone knows it. Like, your son? It's not so much of an insult then, more of, um, an awkward thing to say."  
  
  
Connor almost cut off his own nose as he wiped away tears of mirth, his hands were shaking so much. "Father... I..." he collapsed again from laughter. "That was... I cannot..."  
  
  
Haytham grumbled, "Okay, okay, fine, I get it."  
  
  
Desmond reassured him, "If it had been anyone but Ratonhnhake:ton, it would have been fine. Or, maybe, if she was still around and could make lewd comments back at you, then it would have been a case of causing him to feel parent squick, which parents seem to find highly amusing."  
  
  
Connor asked, still trying to calm down, "What is... parent... squick?"  
  
  
"The way you want to vomit when you realize that, not only did your parents have sex to make you, they actually had fun and enjoyed it, and probably did it again and again. And how you don't want to know the details."  
  
  
Now Haytham was snickering and smirking. Connor rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Father, grow up." But he was still giggling to himself.  
  
  
Desmond resolved never to enlighten them about "That's what she said."

The crew of the Aquila adored their captain. He was lenient about certain things, far more lenient than any on land or sea. Of those men who preferred to conduct their affairs with other men, he demanded only that they not disrupt the ship: that they either keep to themselves as a married couple, or share freely with any who wished, but discreetly. He had had to dismiss a gunner, two years ago, for causing too much jealousy and disruption.  
  
  
Right now, there was a pair, inseparable as they were incomprehensible, from somewhere in the Near East, and Connor had given them one of the small cabins to share, instead of the embarrassment of being among the rest of the crew. They were very grateful, and even more so when they thought the captain had assigned his father to help them learn English. Connor, of course, had done no such thing, not realizing that his father had a traveler's knowledge of Turkish and Arabic. ("How much for that falafel?" "Which way to Damascus?" "Where do they make the eunuchs?")  
  
  
Eventually, of course, they learned that the captain's cousin had beautiful command of a rather archaic dialect from Syria. They had also seen him acting strange and distant and talking to thin air, and had assumed that he had smoked too much hemp at too young an age and gone a little bit mad as a result. Unfortunately, this led to a very tense hour of Desmond trying to convince Connor that he hadn't shown them his blade and they were really just affectionately calling him a pothead. Which led to a long discussion of the etymology of the word Assassin, which Connor found slightly embarrassing, and made Desmond promise never to tell Haytham.  
  
  


>   
>  But, as lenient as he was on such matters, Captain Connor had a few unbreakable rules, and on one day he had left the wheel to Faulkner for a few minutes to take care of certain needs that could not wait, he discovered one of his crew in the cargo hold breaking one of the rules (and the nose of the 13-year-old cook's assistant, when he cried out). Connor, infuriated when he saw the boy's helpless tears, automatically whistled for backup, and was surprised and pleased to find Desmond and Haytham running over from where they had been practicing just out of sight. Connor grabbed the sailor, Haytham grabbed the boy, and when that was insufficient to separate them, Desmond punched the offender in the face a few times. At that, he let go, and Haytham held the trembling boy protectively, whispering in his ear, face stony but eyes blazing with rage.
> 
>  
> 
> "I weren't doin' nothin' he didn' ask for!" the man kept insisting, struggling, spitting out a tooth.
> 
>  
> 
> "Oh yeah, then why was he crying? I don't think he wanted to be with you, buddy. Else he would have been happier about the whole thing." Desmond was up in the man's face.
> 
>  
> 
> The man had the audacity to leer. "He jus' couldn' handle all of me, is all. I'm jus' too big."
> 
>  
> 
> Desmond spat on him. "You douchebag, then you should have stopped. Don't you have any manners?"
> 
>  
> 
> The man looked at him blankly. "There ain't manners fer this."
> 
>  
> 
> Connor said quietly, "There are rules on my ship, and you were caught in the act of breaking them, by three different people. We will hold a trial, and all your crewmates will decide on your fate." With that, he choked him out, and began to carry him to the deck.  
> 

 

"Connor?" Desmond called. "Can we take the kid to the doctor to see if he got hurt? Then if he has any, um, bruises or anything, the doctor can say so at the trial, and then he," he pointed to the boy, "won't have to talk about what happened to him in front of the whole ship."

 

Connor nodded. "Good thinking, Desmond. If you and my father could please escort him there?" Grabbing a long rope, Connor dragged the unconscious man to the deck.

 

The boy, Jimmy, practically clung to Haytham all the way there, and held his hand tightly, eyes wide, while he was examined. It was obvious that he was in a lot of pain, but he made no complaints, simply staring with wide eyes. He yelped when his nose was straightened, but afterwards was silent as his nostrils were packed with gauze. He refused to return to his hammock in the main crew quarters, and upon seeing his silent terror, Desmond went to talk to Connor.

 

Connor was grimly tying the unconscious man to the mast. "We shall have to take turns guarding him until his fate is decided."

 

"Yeah, so, Jimmy is terrified. Is there somewhere he can sleep where he'll feel safe?"

 

Connor considered. "Take him to my quarters so he can rest. We will hold the trial tonight. I believe Jimmy will feel better afterwards."

 

It was surreal, like no court Desmond had seen. They dropped anchor after dark, and the deck was lit up with blazing torches. Faulkner was in charge, as Connor was a witness. Connor, Haytham, and Desmond sat together on some barrels. The rest of the crew clustered in a loose semicircle, watching and listening carefully.

 

After the charges were announced, Faulkner asked the man how he pled. His only response was a series of coarse remarks, and Desmond was glad Jimmy wasn't there to hear them. Then came the three witnesses: Connor, practically glowing with fury; Desmond, obviously nauseated; and Haytham, oddly quiet and emotionless. Then the doctor's report.

 

Then Faulkner asked the defendant what he had to say for himself, and he said nothing. The whole crew were given small pieces of paper and asked to mark an X if they thought he was guilty. (Desmond did a little translating to explain this.)

 

Every single piece of paper, when collected, bore an X. Faulkner then asked for a vote on punishment, and though many wanted execution, eventually it was agreed that he would be marooned on the nearest uninhabited island, and would be bound and guarded until then.

 

Later, Connor approached Desmond. "How is your eyesight?"

 

"Good, I guess?"

 

"I find that I am now in need of a second lookout. Is your hand healed enough that you can climb the mast?"

 

Desmond held it out to show that much of the charred and blistered skin had sloughed off to leave behind extremely tender but healthy new skin. Connor nodded his approval. "You have the afternoon and evening. Now, can you please take first watch over our prisoner? I will take second watch, and Father will take third."

 

Desmond nodded, and spent three clammy hours watching the scumbag's head loll from side to side. He went to wake Connor, and was about to head to his own tiny cabin, when he heard Haytham thrashing around. Hesitantly, he leaned in. "Pops?"

 

Some mumbling, and then Haytham called, "Yes, lad?"

 

"I was, erm, wondering if you were all right."

 

No answer, so Desmond slipped in and sat on the bunk beside his ancestor.

 

Sometimes the Bleeding Effect really sucked. Sometimes Desmond found that he knew things he had no business knowing, and would have preferred not to.

 

"Who?" A shrug. "That guy...Birch?" A nod. "Kill him?"

 

"Jenny did."

 

"Good on her. She know?"

 

More shrugging. "Maybe she guessed." A deep, depressed, defeated sigh.

 

"Not your fault." This would have been impossible with the lights on, but the anonymity of darkness helped.

 

"Still. Shameful."

 

"For him?"

 

"No."

 

"Shouldn't be like that."

 

"But it is."

 

"Tell your son?"

 

"Never."

 

Desmond sighed, and put an arm around Haytham's shoulders. "How come you're so nice to me and to Jimmy? But you're always fighting with your own son?"

 

A weak chuckle. "He doesn't need me to hold his hand. Or protect him. Or keep him safe. He never has. Perhaps if I'd _known_ when he was a small child... " Haytham trailed off, and Desmond gripped his shoulder gingerly with his bandaged hand, awkwardly trying to return some of the comfort his ancestor had given him.

 

At dawn, Desmond awoke to find he was still sitting on Haytham's bunk, and Haytham was leaning on his shoulder, snoring lightly. Connor peered in quietly. "How is he?"

 

Desmond frowned thoughtfully. "He was very upset," he began carefully.

 

Connor nodded. "That is why I did not wake him."

 

"Who's watching the creep?" Desmond found he didn't care to know or remember the man's name.

 

Connor smiled faintly. "Cook. He wields a ferocious cleaver."

 

Desmond chuckled. "Good choice."

 

Connor sat in the uncomfortable chair, backwards, to face Haytham and Desmond. "I find... " he began hesitantly, "I wish to punch him. Very badly do I wish to punch him. I want to tear him limb from limb, or castrate him, for what he did to young Jimmy. But I find I... also, separately, wish to beat him for upsetting my Rake:ni." He frowned thoughtfully at Haytham, who slept on. "I know that one day I may have to kill my father, though I desperately hope not. But at the same time, I also wish very much to hurt the man who reminded him, last night, of whatever it is he does not wish to be reminded of." He held up his hand to stop Desmond from saying anything. "I am sure you know, but he would not want you to tell me." He sighed. "Why can we not just be father and son?"

 

Desmond swallowed the lump in his throat as Connor got up and left. Scarcely a minute later, a shout rang out across the ship. "Land ho!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That...that was tough to write. *stomps on own feels*
> 
> I'm pretty sure it will be less tragical after this. Until, of course, everyone dies. Thanks Ubisoft!


	13. Peer Pressure Is Nothing Compared To Ancestor Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Desmond is led astray. Or maybe he was there already.

The Aquila approached the island at what seemed to Desmond to be a snail's pace. At first, he could only see it from the crow's nest, when he climbed up for his first shift as lookout after lunch. And then, he could only tell it was land by using Eagle Vision through the spyglass, to see the lighter gray that meant there were forests and brush. Hiding places. But Connor found a better wind, ordered the crew to adjust the sails appropriately, and they were dodging the reefs and rocks near the island by midafternoon. Unable to approach any closer, Connor ordered the small rowboat prepared, and beckoned Desmond down.

"Let us go investigate this island. Faulkner says, if his map is correct, there should be the ruins of a governor's mansion, and little else." Connor looked at Desmond's still-bandaged hand, then called, "Father! I need somebody to row."

Desmond settled in the small boat--entirely a different experience from the sturdy Aquila. He gripped the seat as first Connor, then Haytham joined him, and the boat tilted alarmingly in the ocean.

Connor handed his father the oars. Haytham handed them back.

"Please, Father, can you row?"

"But son, I've never rowed before."

"And you are an old dog that cannot learn new tricks?"

"No, but you're a strong young man who can show some respect for his father."

Desmond looked up at the clouds, hoping this wouldn't take more than an hour or so.

"Respect?! ...I _respect_ your impressive physical strength despite your age, and wish to help you maintain it."

"And I respect your vast experience in matters nautical."

"Good, then you will be more than happy to row while I use my experience to navigate."

"I'm quite certain you're capable of handling both at once. You could probably kill one of my friends at the same time, even, you're just that talented."

"You have friends? ...Oh, I forgot, you enjoy the company of murderers and abusers of small children."

"You mean, hardened killers like my son?" Haytham's voice was deadly and quiet.

"I certainly never inherited that talent from my mother."

"Would that she had killed Washington when she had the chance, instead of merely concussing him!"

This was going nowhere, and neither was the boat. Desmond picked up the oars and began clumsily rowing towards shore. Yeah, the rocks were dangerous, but he was pretty sure he knew where they were. And he was making mental bets on when either of them would notice he was rowing. He would have lost, though, because as soon as his bandages shifted and he winced with pain, the bickering stopped.

"Give me that!" Haytham snatched the oar out of his bandaged hand. "What on earth do you think you're doing? What do you think would happen if you got blisters?" He ineptly applied the oar to the water, and they proceeded more or less towards the shore.

Connor tried to hide his smirk. Desmond rolled his eyes, annoyed with both of them.

It began to get dark as they approached the shore, and Connor was so focused on steering clear of hidden hazards that he wasn't paying much attention to the land. But when Desmond switched to Eagle Vision, he saw a heck of a lot of blue gathering on the beach. "Uh, I thought you said this was uninhabited? So, uh, what's with the crap-ton of Assassins?"

Connor looked up, surprised. "How do you know they are Assassins?"

Haytham cursed, grimly. "Who else would be blue to you and red to me?" He squinted, then laughed. "Except they've got at least one traitor. A Templar, or good as."

"You recognize this person?"

"No, but I can't think of any other reason someone on an island full of Assassins would be blue for me." He reflected for a minute, then added, "It could be Jenny, but the last I heard she was in London terrorizing everyone within a three-mile radius."

Desmond squinted. Yes, there was definitely a wisp of red among the crowd.

The waves gently carried them to the shore, where at least three dozen hooded figures waited. A large man, perhaps a handful of years younger than Haytham, stepped forward. "Who are you, and why have you come here?"

Haytham muttered, "Typical Assassin welcoming committee."

Desmond reminded him, "Most Assassins have plenty of reason to hate you."

His voice radiated wounded innocence. "I haven't killed any assassins in _years._ "

"How _many_ years, Pops?"

Connor shushed them, and stood up carefully in the boat. "I am Ratonhnhake:ton of Davenport Homestead, Captain of the Aquila." There was a general hushed commotion.

"Ruh--what?"

"Connor, then."

"Connor... what?"

"Just... Connor."

Desmond casually folded his ring finger and pretended to pick his nose. Haytham smirked at him. "Don't you think Templars know those little recognition signs you Assassins love?"

"Of course. But I don't think other Assassins know that Templars know that. Besides, what Templars are we talking about? Rank and file Templars? Or ones that defected from the Assassins or are spies or are otherwise associated with--"

"Will you two be quiet?!"

"Er, are you having some kind of difficulty?" The man was trying to look around Connor to see what all the talking was.

"My father and my cousin are...bickering. Again."

Desmond sulked. "I'm not bickering. _You_ bicker with Pops. I don't."

The man blinked and shook his head. "I see. What brings you here, Connor of Davenport Homestead, Captain of the Aquila?" He caught Desmond's eye and brushed something off his sleeve, ring finger folded. Desmond pointed to Connor's tomahawk, and was glad when the man looked at it, eyes widening with recognition. Then his gaze wandered to Haytham's arm, obviously noticing the old Assassin symbol. Desmond could have facepalmed. _Oh shit, he thinks Pops is one too!_

Connor was good at this formal stuff--perhaps because he sounded formal all the time. "I find I have need to maroon a crew member for his crimes. We had thought this island to be uninhabited."

"It wouldn't be a secret hideout if it was marked on maps, would it?"

"Very true. In any case, since we obviously cannot maroon him here, may we purchase supplies and food from you, and then continue on our way?"

The man smiled. "Bring your whole crew ashore, Captain, and we'll throw a party."

Connor demurred. "That will not be necessary--"

"Nonsense! The Ghost of the North? Here? No Assassin would give away the chance to thank you and your crew for all you do for the Brotherhood."

Haytham was very carefully not obviously laughing.

Connor inclined his head stiffly. "Very well. Where can we dock?"

They rowed back out to the Aquila, and Connor steered it into the cove. Almost all of the crew gathered on the shore, leaving only a couple of men to keep watch over the ship and make sure the creep didn't escape from the mast. The Assassins had offered to transfer him to a couple of cells they had in the basement of the old manor, but Connor had declined.

Makeshift tables were being set up in the grassy area in front of the manor, and Assassins from the island mingled with sailors from the Aquila, and everyone took the chance to eat as much fresh food as they could. There was wild boar with pineapple, a spicy rice dish, and many other dishes that seemed exotic to most of the sailors, but just reminded Desmond of home and the vast array of ethnic cuisines he was used to having at his fingertips in take-out menu form. There was alcohol other than rum, for once, although the red wine was indifferent at best. There was music, and dancing, and room to dance without being hemmed in by the ship. There was a distinct lack of loose women, and what women there were, Assassins all, had a no-nonsense attitude that seemed to scare off most of the sailors. Desmond was fairly sure that one or two of them had agreed to make out with some of the crew, but the amount of drunken debauchery was fairly low.

Desmond and Haytham were hanging out at one of the tables, watching Connor watch his crew, and watching Jimmy sleepily playing dice with Faulkner. The Assassin who had welcomed them to the island walked deliberately over to them--clearly a little tipsy, but not smashed. "Hullo, visiting Assassins."

Haytham pretended to be watching a line dance. Connor eyed the older Assassin. "What is your name?"

"Ted Burleigh. First in my family to be an Assassin! Not like you fellows and your family."

"Mm," Desmond agreed, noncommittally.

"Me mum was a pirate, y'know. But an ally of Assassins. So when I was a lad and I couldn't be on a ship without puking my eyes out, I figured I'd join the Brotherhood. Least Mum's proud of that even if I can't sail."

"How did you get here, if you can't sail?" Haytham inquired.

"It was the worst time o' my life," Ted confessed. "I swear I puked up half my body weight. But this is the best place in the Caribbean to train, y'know. I didn't wanna go to Louisiana, or up to New England. An' I haven't left since I came here. Hey, Connor. Connor--You ain't got a last name?"

Connor gritted his teeth. "No."

"How on earth do you expect to blend in to colonial society without a last name?" Ted seemed aggrieved, either because of Connor's surname situation, or because he was having trouble sitting down on the flimsy folding stool.

"Very poorly, as few colonists seem to be able to see that I am half British."

"Then why not use your British parent's name?"

"Good question, son," Haytham whispered.

Desmond asked Connor, "Why does he care if you have a last name? How many Native American assassins named Connor are there anyway, and does each one get to drive a ship named the Aquila?"

Connor was well on his way to grinding his molars into dust. "Because my parents were not married and I understand that in my father's society that means I do not inherit anything from him except his face. Certainly not his name, even if I wanted it. Or anything else of his."

Ted peered at Haytham, looking surprised. Haytham smiled weakly. "Yes, hello, I'm Connor's father. I have no qualms about him using my surname. In fact, I would be delighted. And honored."

Connor growled softly, then muttered "Fine. Kenway."

Ted fell off the rickety stool. "Kenway?! As in...Edward Kenway??"

Haytham looked surprised. "Yes, that was my father's name. You knew him?"

"No, but my mother did." Ted seated himself again with exaggerated care. "She knew him really...really well."

Desmond winced. He could see where this was going.

Ted continued, a little louder. "My mother loved Assassins. At least two of 'em. And then she chose stupid idiots to father her children. Vastly inferior men." He shook a finger in Haytham's face. "I would...LOVE...to be your brother, mister...mister Kenway. Y'know. Your dad gave us this island. 'Cause the Templars found our old place. Kept attackin' us. He felt bad, she said. Said it was his own fault. Tried to protect it, but it weren't good enough. Now we're here an' the Templars ain't bothered us."

Haytham was really, really unable to look directly at Ted, and settled for keeping a concerned eye on Jimmy.

"So...I heard that ol' Edward and all his family got killed forty years ago. Guess not all his family."

"Actually, he was the only one who died that night. Other than some of the attackers, one of the boys who lived next door, and my governess." Haytham's voice was cold and remote as he watched Faulkner wrap his coat around Jimmy, who was nodding off, leaning against a palm tree.

Connor was watching his father thoughtfully. He supposed that, of all the phrases that could describe Haytham Kenway, "vastly inferior" was one that would never be applied to him, not even by the most Templar-hating Assassin. And, although he knew that many of his people had been displeased with his mother for taking a white man for her lover, he knew that none of them considered his father a weak or pathetic person and none of them spoke of his mother with anything less than respect. His friends Teiowi:sonte and Kahionhatenion also had a British father, but whenever he was spoken of, it was with fear and disdain. None even wished to speak his name, nor did anyone call his wife by her name, not even after she died, for fear that someone would tell him she had hidden there.

Ted interrupted Connor's musings by yawning hugely. "Pardon me." He yawned again, and put his head down on the table. Desmond tripled his estimate of the older assassin's blood alcohol content.

One of the assassins, a tall and fairly intimidating woman, made her way towards their table and asked Connor, "So, where do you plan to sleep tonight?"

He looked extremely uncomfortable. "Ah... in my cabin... on my ship... "

Haytham sighed. "Son... "

She smiled and leaned closer. "Maybe I could join you there..."

Connor was blushing brick red. "Ah... I apologize... but I am on a mission right now... "

"Then perhaps after your mission is over... "

Connor looked like he thought he was about to be smothered by bosoms. "Ahhh... maybe? There are... others who might, ah, think they have a prior claim...."

Desmond made a funny strangled noise, and Haytham was having trouble breathing. She smiled at Desmond, and he shook his head quickly. "My heart is with a girl back home."

She nodded equably and laid a hand on Haytham's arm, which he gently removed. "You are very lovely, but as you can tell from my son here, I prefer a lady with, ah, a darker complexion."

Connor looked like he was about to explode from embarrassment, and once the woman left their table, he hissed angrily at his father, "What did you mean by that?!"

Haytham smiled sadly. "Exactly what I said. I do prefer a lady with a darker complexion, although she probably wouldn't have appreciated me referring to her as a lady." He took a long swig of Desmond's drink, and stared pensively at nothing. "Since I cannot be with her, I find that other women suffer by comparison." He finished Desmond's drink, and swiped Ted's, while asking, "And you, lad, missing a girl back home?"

"Yes, and when I get back, she'll still be dead so I'll still miss her."

"Ah. How ironic."

"I'm not like Connor, I can't tell girls to get in line."

"Yes, son, do tell me about all these women waiting for you."

Connor grumbled and ignored his father.

Ted woke up enough to stare blearily at them, then remembered his manners. "Let me show you to the guest house..." He beckoned them towards the manor, bringing them over to one wing that was offset a little, and had its own front entrance. "Here ya go...plenty of candles... beds should be fresh..." he yawned again. "We can fit your crew in--"

"No, my crew will return to the ship to sleep, as will I. However, my father and cousin are not seafaring folk and will appreciate a night on land."

"Whatever you wish, Brother."

In the end, Desmond and Haytham and Jimmy elected to spend the night at the guest house, and Connor returned to the Aquila, where he spent most of the night silently threatening the prisoner.

Desmond had a hard time getting to sleep, and then he was awakened far too early. "Psst!"

"Huhhhhh..."

"Wake up, before the sun rises."

"Them's fightin' words, Pops."

"Come here and look at the main wing. No, use your other sight."

"'S gold...why?"

"That's what I intend to find out."

"Have fun, Pops."

"Come on, now, if we hurry they won't even miss us."

Desmond groaned and allowed himself to be led to the main part of the manor. "Pops, you can't just go around breaking into--"

"Assassin hideouts? My father's houses? I assure you, lad, I have done both." Within a minute, he was clinging to the window sill, and Desmond had no choice but to follow him.

The window turned out to belong to a small storage room of some kind. Most of the stuff in it was useless--broken furniture, a barrel that had seen better decades, a little girl's dress that had ripped and was now thickly coated in dust. Haytham picked up the dress and reverently brushed the dust from it. Desmond wondered if those were tears in his eyes, or allergies. Then Haytham sneezed, and blew his nose into a handkerchief, and said in a businesslike tone, "This must have been Jenny's. She loves that shade of blue."

"That's it? You woke me up for this?"

"He has to have a secret hiding place here. Assassins love having secret hiding places."

Desmond yawned hugely. "What about behind that funny-looking wall?"

It turned out to be a loose board in the wall, behind which was a small compartment mostly filled with moldering paper. Much of the paper seemed to be half completed letters addressed "Dear Mum" and "Dearest Caroline", filled with crossed out sentences, little doodles, and the occasional curse word where the writer was apparently frustrated. There were two letters that had come, addressed to Edward Kenway, and carefully placed back in their envelopes after being read. Desmond shoved those into one of the pockets in Connor's coat.

When he heard a soft, pained sound, Desmond looked around for stray kittens, but found only Haytham, tightly gripping a small leatherbound journal. Desmond pried it from him to read the inscription on the frontispiece. "To my Father, on the Occasion of his Birthday. With Love, Jennifer Scott. 10 March 1722. Belated due to Storms." He flipped through it. "He never wrote in it... Wait..." he turned the book on its side. "He did! Look, it's near the spine. So you can't see it casually flipping through."

Both of them were engrossed in the little book, which seemed to be full of ciphers and codes, and did not notice the soft scuffing of Connor's moccasins until he spoke.

"You are on an island of your mortal enemies, Father, and this is what you chose to do? Lead Desmond into a life of burglary?"

"Hey, he didn't have to lead me very far."

"He is an adult and can make his own bad decisions."

"We are his family, we should provide a good example for him to follow. Do you ever stop to think about what sort of impression--"

"Hold on, son--"

"Yeah, calm yo' hippy tits, Connor!"

Both of his ancestors stopped mid-argument and gawped at Desmond. Connor mouthed "hippy tits" in shock, before hesitantly asking, "Father, you have spoken English your entire life. Perhaps you can help me. I know the words but the phrase dumbfounds me. Is there some special meaning to those words that I simply do not know?"

"No, son, there isn't, other than that our descendant is occasionally mad."

"I just meant you should stop interrupting your dad... Maybe bicker a little less?"

Connor crossed his arms, annoyed. "He should not be encouraging you to steal--"

"Connor, about half this stuff is _ours_. Or, our family's." Haytham brandished the little book. "This was a birthday gift for my father. The dress was my sister's. These half finished letters? My father was writing to his parents and his wife. He may have given this island, this house, to the Assassins, but the personal effects? The only Assassins with any right to keep them are in this room with me. So how is it stealing if it's _ours_?"

"That's an interesting kind of morality, _Templar_."

Desmond scooted in between Ted's pistol and Haytham, and to his surprise, so did Connor. With a sigh, Ted lowered the gun an inch or two. "I don't know why you two are protecting him. You know he's a Templar."

"That does not mean he is not correct about his father's belongings. Even a Templar has a right to inherit things of sentimental importance."

"He can't have that little book. There's important information that can't--"

Haytham handed it to Connor. "There, now it is in Assassin hands. As everything I own will be anyway once Connor inherits it from me."

Ted waved the pistol, just a bit. "That should be pretty soon. Hands up, Templar."

Haytham sighed and held up his hands. "This is ridiculous. I'm not attacking you or spying on you, I just wanted some family heirlooms."

Ted scoffed. "How am I supposed to believe that, once you leave, you won't go telling all your Templar friends how to get here?"

"Maybe because I don't particularly want another of my family's houses set on fire?"

Connor interrupted, "He is assisting me with tracking down another Templar."

"How can you trust that he's not leading you into a trap?"

Haytham snapped indignantly, "I'm not leading my son into a trap! What kind of man do you think I am, anyway?"

"A Templar who wiped out much of the Colonial Brotherhood."

"But not my _son!_ "

"Whatever you say, Templar. Now come on, no more guest house for you, time for the cells in the basement."

Haytham rolled his eyes. "I don't believe in ghosts, but I almost wish I could think that my father's spirit would annoy the shit out of you for using his basement to imprison _his own son_."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure he'd be so proud of his son the Grand Master Templar. And you two, don't even think of trying to spring him. There's going to be at least four Assassin guards on him at all times."

Connor glowered. "How am I to believe that your guards will not 'accidentally' kill my father?"

Desmond chimed in, "Which would allow the really awful Templar Benjamin Church to get away with being a total scuzzbucket."

Ted just snorted. He looked awful--haggard and tired, with red eyes and sagging eyelids. Desmond wondered if it would be possible to reason with him once he got over his hangover.

Haytham rolled his eyes. "Connor, Desmond, please, don't make a big fuss. I'm sure that someone here is reasonable."

Desmond shook his head. "I'm not."

Connor asked quietly, "Not sure or not reasonable?"

"Good question."

Haytham smirked as Ted pushed him between the shoulder blades. "What would my father say if he knew his old girlfriend's son was taking me prisoner?"

"He'd say you deserve it, Templar."

"You know, I do have a name. Three of them, in fact."

"I don't care, Templar."

"I daresay one of mine is _the same as yours_ , in fact."

"Doesn't matter. Keep walking."

"Because Ted is short for Edward, correct?"

"None of your business."

"And _my_ middle name is Edward. In fact, I suspect we're named after _the same person_."

"Unfortunately."

"Did your mother name all her children after her old boyfriends? Did your father _know_?"

"It's none of your business."

"I mean, I would suspect you were my brother, but you're too young."

"I am no brother of yours."

"Maybe we have a sibling in common."

"Would you be so kind as to shut up already?"

Connor almost felt sorry for Ted, but not quite. He heard a sound and reached out just in time to grab Jimmy as he ran screaming after Haytham. "Shhh, I need you to stay here with Desmond, please. I am going to follow them and ensure they do not harm my father, but I also need you to keep Desmond safe."

"I can take care of--"

"If he starts speaking in strange tongues, you must keep him from doing anything foolish to hurt himself."

Jimmy looked up at Desmond protectively, and grabbed him by the wrist. Desmond rolled his eyes at Connor, who smiled just perceptibly and extended the tip of his hidden blade, then looked at his father's retreating back, and back at Desmond, and raised his eyebrows. _They didn't take his blade?? Epic fail..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Ted. Unfortunately he wound up being kind of an antagonist right now. But I'm sure if he could just sit down with Connor and gossip, they'd be friends.


	14. Hiding In The Crowd Is Easy When Everyone Dresses Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Haytham continues the ancient Kenway family tradition of getting thrown in prison, and the Haytham tradition of never shutting up.

Desmond waited until the hallway was clear, then whispered to Jimmy. "First lesson? Blend in with the crowd." He opened several doors until he found a closet full of white and gray robes. "Here y'go. I saw some kids about your size wearing these..." he handed him a gray robe. "Put that on over your clothes."

Jimmy looked at him, mouth agape, as Desmond pulled off Connor's coat, chucked it into the guest room, and replaced it with the plainer robes. "All right, now, you have to walk like you belong here."

"How's that?"

"You're important and a little bit arrogant. You're respectful of your elders but don't cringe. You're being trained to carry on a noble tradition. And you have every right to be where you're going. You don't need to hide."

The boy nodded slowly. "Won't they know I don't belong here when they see my face?"

Desmond pulled the gray hood so it covered more of the boy's face. "If they see your face. Now follow me, I'm your teacher and this is a special lesson. We're actually going to see one of our worst enemies, and you're curious. All your life everybody's told you that these guys want to kill you and jump rope with your intestines." Jimmy made a face. "Seriously, these are like the worst guys you can imagine."

"I can imagine pretty bad."

"These guys, they want to kill you just for being you. Okay? Keep that in mind, you're being a curious kid going to see an actual boogeyman."

Jimmy nodded and bit his lip. "All right, let's go."

There weren't too many assassins milling about, which was both good and bad. Less chance of detection, but also less chance of hiding.

Jimmy followed Desmond loyally, carefully mimicking his movements, and casting occasional glances to see if he'd lost his mind in the past few minutes. Actually, he hadn't had any particularly bad Bleeding Effect episodes since they'd come to the island--Inagua, they called it. Desmond figured that since he'd experienced no memories of Haytham's father, Edward, he wasn't getting the weird dislocation of being in the same place as two different people that had been plaguing him ever since he had appeared on the Aquila.

But shouldn't he be picking up on Connor's memories? Wasn't this a significant memory for him? After all, it was unusual for Connor to be defending his father to other Assassins. And family was extremely important to him, even his father's side of the family. Wouldn't he have remembered going to his grandfather's island, finding mementos, meeting the annoying son of his grandfather's pirate ex-girlfriend?

Did that mean Desmond was actually changing the past by being in it? Was he going to be credited with the invention of the mojito? Could he convince his ancestors to get along? Or should be try to do as little as possible in the hopes of not screwing up the future? What if Connor was meant to have children with Dobby, and because of Desmond's intervention, got together with the woman from last night instead? Would Desmond still exist? Would be come back to a body that looked different? Would his father have a less crappy personality?

Desmond realized that Jimmy had yanked him into the parlor--he supposed that's what it was--and was trying to fan his face. "Desmond! Wake up, Desmond!"

"I'm awake, Jimmy, I'm okay."

The boy looked up at him dubiously. "What does okay mean?"

"It means I'm fine, I'm all right."

"You speak funny, Mister Desmond."

"No, I don't. You speak funnier, Mister Jimmy."

The boy giggled. "I'm too young to be called Mister anything," he reproached. "How come you don't speak like Mister Haytham or Captain Connor? They're your family."

"Well, I didn't learn to talk from them. Just like they don't sound the same because Connor was raised by his mother's people."

Jimmy digested this. "You still talk very oddly."

"How should I talk?"

"Like Mister Haytham."

"Why not like Connor?"

"Because he's younger than you. Also you call Mister Haytham 'Pops' so he probably raised you for part of your life, so you should talk like him."

Desmond reached under the gray hood to--

_\--Kadar had just become a novice, and Altair realized it was going to be much more difficult to ruffle the younger boy's hair to tease him--_

\--freeze with his hand creepily on Jimmy's hair.

"Wake up, Desmond!"

His hand was shaking as Altair's grief and guilt overwhelmed him. He couldn't move, he couldn't speak, he couldn't lower his hand, but he also couldn't raise it to touch the gray ghost before him.

"Psst! Desmond! Psst!"

"Hey, J--you're not my son." It was the woman from last night, and she looked aggrieved. "Have you seen my son around? Little taller than you, surly expression, black hair...?"

Jimmy shook his head. "No, ma'am."

"Oh, don't call me ma'am. My name is Mary, Mary Burleigh."

Desmond was finally able to drop his hand. "So that Ted fellow..."

"Is my stupid big brother, yes. Your uncle was right, by the way. Mother did name her children after her lovers and husbands. Except for my littlest sister Jenny. I suppose if Haytham is your uncle, then his sister Jennifer must be your mother...?"

Desmond was starting to feel really guilty about the fake backstory he and Haytham had concocted. "Yeah... But, um, she doesn't like to think about me..."

Mary looked at him with the deepest sympathy, and Desmond felt about half an inch tall. "I know all about what happened to her. I'm sure she feels just miserable when she looks at you. It's not fair, you know. Your uncle has a bastard son and nobody looks down on him for it, but your mother didn't even have a choice in the matter and would get heaped with shame if she was open about it."

"Hey, he didn't go knocking up Ziio on purpose, he didn't even know she got pregnant until Connor was seventeen. And, and about my, uh, mom. Yeah. About her. Where were the damn Assassins when she got kidnapped? How come she had to wait until her little brother grew up and could use his _Templar_ skills to rescue her? How come the Assassins didn't go, 'hey, we haven't heard anything from our fellow Assassin Eddie Kenway in a while. Maybe he got killed and his daughter got kidnapped and his son's in the hands of the Templars! We gotta do something'? Why were they all, too bad so sad, and then they get upset about Haytham the Grand Master Templar? It's like his buddies, they're all, hey let's beat up this native kid, and then they wonder why he wants to kill them all. Duhhhh, you can't treat a kid like shit and then wonder why he grows up to cause problems for you."

Jimmy was gaping at Desmond in awe. Mary smiled and pulled up her hood. "Exactly what I said to my brother, but I don't think he listened. Your uncle is a valuable asset, a Templar with Assassin connections and Assassin sympathies. Any sensible Assassin--like your cousin--should try to cultivate these sympathies, and try to prevent the title of Grand Master from falling to some Templar we have no ties to."

Desmond nodded. "Keep your enemies close, exactly. So I'm going to--ah--"

"Break him out? Good, I'll help."

"Really? Why?"

"The reasons I just said. And... my family owes yours a big favor. The biggest favor, actually."

"How so?"

She looked at him. "You weren't told? Look... my mother used to go by the name Anne Bonny."

"Anne Bonny the famous pirate?! Like in that old book?! She's your **mom**?!"

"The very same. I think she's the only one in the book who's still alive, actually. She was saved from hanging by my brother that died--they couldn't hang a pregnant woman, you know. But they threw her, and Mary Read--"

"THE Mary Read? Wait... you're... you're named after her! She's one of the ones your mom--wait, she was an Assassin???"

Mary laughed. "Yes, although the one or two other people who have figured it out were more disgusted by my mother's love life than astounded that she was an Assassin."

Desmond waved his hand dismissively. "Where I come from, women walk hand in hand and send out wedding invitations, but nobody believes in Assassins."

She shook her head in amazement. "Well, as I say, they threw them into jail. They executed all the men, including Mother's husband Jack. And at the trial, your grandfather showed up and was captured. And they decided to torture him but keep him alive. Mother wouldn't say what they did to him, but she says he looked terrible."

Desmond blanched. He didn't know anything about the mysterious Edward Kenway, but he seemed to have some pretty vicious enemies.

Mary continued, "The Assassins sent a team to rescue them--your grandfather wasn't one yet, but they didn't want Mary and my mother to stay in prison, of course, and be brought to trial again. So they rescued your grandfather, and he was in no shape to fight, so while the Assassins were fighting the guards, he helped Mary out. And--and she died of childbed fever, but my mother made it out because of him and the Assassins, although my brother was born too early and didn't breathe." She drew a deep, shuddering breath. "So you see, I wouldn't exist, nor most of my brothers and sisters, if it weren't for Edward Kenway. And I thought about it. And I don't think he'd want his own son dying in a jail cell in his own basement. Templar or no. And I don't think Mother would be very happy with Teddy if she found out about it."

Desmond opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to figure out what to say. Jimmy butted in, "Mister Haytham helped save _me_. From bad stuff."

Mary nodded gravely. "Teddy was reading the information we have on Haytham this morning, but I don't think he got past the word Templar to read about how apparently saving people from horrible fates runs in the family." She waved a stack of paper. "1735, saves his mother from death or worse when their home was attacked. Tries to help his father fight off the invaders, but gets injured. 1754, saves a whole bunch of Natives from one Edward Braddock, Templar. Later works with one of them to eliminate Braddock."

"Yeah, that's Kanieh'ti:io that he worked with. Ziio. Connor's mom. But he didn't coerce her or anything, she kissed him first when he was being all gentlemanly."

Mary paused to scribble notes. "1758, rescues his sister Jennifer from slavery. Also rescues his friend, James Holden, after Holden is captured and maimed in the course of rescuing Jenny. Then kills Grandmaster Reginald Birch, who had masterminded the 1735 attack on the Kenway family--"

"Jenny killed him. I mean. My mom. She killed Birch. Not that Haytham wasn't trying, it's just how the fight went. Both of them will tell you that. Birch was an evil douchebag. He did worse than you could possibly have written down."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because there weren't witnesses and the victim doesn't talk about it. Or think about it."

She pursed her lips. "How do you know, then?"

"An unlucky guess in a shitty circumstance."

Jimmy laced his fingers through Desmond's, and clung to him, looking up at Mary with big eyes.

Mary bit her lip. "I see. Er, back to your uncle. 1776, may have done something to save his son from the gallows--weakened the knot on the noose or some such. Certainly it was a bad noose that didn't kill him right away. He was spotted sneaking around in the crowd at the execution, disguised, and vanished by the time the excitement was over. He didn't interfere with one of his close friends getting killed by Connor, either."

"And he helped me!" Jimmy insisted.

Mary asked, "What did he do?"

"Captain Connor found me, um, getting hurt by this guy... and he whistled, and Mister Haytham and Mister Desmond came over, and they pulled him away from me, and took me to the doctor, and tied that man up so he couldn't hurt anyone, and had a trial for that man and told about the way he was hurting me so I didn't have to say it. And they keep me from being lonely and scared. So you can't let your brother hurt Mister Haytham. I _need_ him. Maybe when I'm taller and I can use a sword and a flintlock, I won't need him. But right now I do."

She crouched down to look the boy in the eyes. "All right. I won't let my brother hurt Mister Haytham. We're going to fix everything, you and me and Captain Connor and Mister Desmond."

Jimmy nodded, smiling.

Mary spotted movement out of the corner of her eye and darted out of the room, returning with a teenaged boy in gray robes, whose face seemed to have a permanent scowl. "My son, James Burleigh."

James grumbled--he looked about fifteen, and disaffected with life in general. Desmond switched to Eagle Vision and saw wisps of red around him. This was going to be awkward.

"Mom. I don't want to do whatever crazy Assassin scheme you have going on. How many times have I told you I _don't want to be an Assassin_?"

"I don't care if you want to be an Assassin or not, James, I need your help and this is very far from Assassin business."

The boy seemed interested--or at least marginally less disaffected, which was quite the accomplishment. "Are you leaving the Assassins?"

"Probably not, but your uncle won't be happy about us breaking a Templar out of jail."

"There's a Templar in the basement? A real live Templar?"

"Yes. And if you help me out, you can leave with him."

"What's the plan?"

Desmond was staring at Mary. She rolled her eyes. "Don't judge me. I want my boy to be happy."

"But what if he betrays you all?"

She frowned thoughtfully. "I don't believe he would. First, I think he only wants to get away from here. Becoming a Templar takes more dedication than I think he wants to summon."

"I'm _right here_ , Mother."

"They'll kick you out if they don't like you."

"As opposed to the Assassins, who won't even _let_ me leave. What are **you** smirking at?" He glared pugnaciously at Desmond.

"James Burleigh, you mind your manners."

"Or else what, you'll have Uncle Ted hit me even harder in training?" He had a faint shadow of green and yellow around one eye.

Mary frowned. "I'm sure he didn't mean to."

"I'm sure he did."

"Ah--" Desmond interrupted. "Look, I understand about wanting to get away. When I was sixteen, I ran away from the Assassins too. I hated my... my teachers, I hated everything about it. I knew my mom would be disappointed, but I had to find my own way. And I didn't join the Templars, there's lots of other things you can do with your life. I worked whatever jobs I could get, and then I ended up as a bartender, and I really liked that. I would have been so happy not to be a part of the whole thing ever again if it weren't for some asshole Templars in Italy." Damn, but it was hard to integrate his fake backstory with his real one.

"You didn't want to be like your uncle?" James queried.

"Cool and awesome like him, yes. A Templar, no."

"My uncle isn't even 'cool and awesome'."

"Ted is a good man and he saved my life when your father and all the other Colonial Assassins were killed before you were born."

Desmond's blood ran cold. He kept forgetting about the Purge. That was not something he looked forward to discussing with Haytham.

Jimmy asked, "Don't you have other uncles? I bet at least one of them is decent."

James shrugged. "I've never met them. I met my Gran once. I guess she's not too bad."

Desmond walked away from the teenagers a little, beckoning Mary over. He whispered, "If your baby daddy was killed in the Purge, why are you trying to break out the Grandmaster who led it?"  
  
She looked at him quizzically, apparently trying to interpret the phrase 'baby daddy'. "Your uncle wasn't there when our safe house was attacked. I thought he hadn't been, but now that I've seen him, I know he wasn't. The Purge was in 1763. And at that time, he was moping around in Virginia, right?"  
  
"I think so."  
  
"He may have ordered it, but he may not have. His subordinates may have taken it upon themselves. They... all the reports from surviving Assassins and allies, none of them mentioned a Templar with a Hidden Blade. Or a Templar that matches his description. One or two attacks in the Virginia area, there was a man in a blue coat watching, but he didn't fight unless anyone came near."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"Witnesses. Reports. My fiance escaped several times before he was... caught. One of those times, he ran right past your uncle, who sat on his horse watching like he didn't even care."  
  
Desmond frowned. What had happened, to turn Haytham Kenway from a young man with ample skill for his expansive ambition, into someone who would just check out from a battle like that? A wave of crushing hopelessness and despair broke over his mind, leaving behind a bleak mental landscape of disinterested doubt.  
  
Mary cleared her throat and Jimmy yanked on Desmond's hand. "Oh... Uh, I'm not sure. But I don't think he was really emotionally invested in it. I think... I don't know. I think he was dealing with a lot? Rescuing... my mom... and me of course...although I don't remember anything... anyway, he's not a bad guy, he's a jerk and a pompous asshole sometimes but he also does good things too. Like you said."  
  
She nodded, and suggested, "Why don't you go check on him? You must be so worried about him. I'm going to go make sure your cousin's ship gets restocked. Let's plan the jailbreak to start after dinner. Let Connor know too...come along, James."  
  
"Can't I just go meet the Templar?"  
  
"Later."  
  
Desmond was practically soaked with sweat from the strain of lying and not getting overwhelmed by the Bleeding Effect. He and Jimmy made their way to the hidden staircase to the basement, and loitered in a hallway near where he could hear a familiar sarcastic voice.

In a cell roughly hewn from stone and fitted with an iron-barred door, Haytham Kenway was sitting on a wooden crate, busily working at driving Ted Burleigh mad. "I just love the architecture of  _my father's house_. And I think I saw some lovely art that I'd love to examine more closely. If only I could  _walk around_  this house that's  _of great sentimental importance_  to my family. I hear my father stole quite a collection of art from the British and Spanish ships, who of course had stolen it originally..."

  
Connor was leaning against the wall, probably purposefully looking like a barely restrained threat. "Europeans tend to do that."  
  
Haytham said lazily, "Yes, it's sadly one of our better qualities. I sure wish I could view this stunning collection, but alas, it seems that I'm in somewhat more trouble than being sent to my room without supper."  
  
"I would guess, Father, that when you were a child and did get sent to your room, you were provided with a chamber pot?"  
  
"Why, yes, Connor, how ever did you guess?"  
  
Ted gritted his teeth. "I know what you're doing, and it won't work."  
  
"He knows what we're doing, Connor."  
  
"What are we doing, Father?"  
  
"I think we should ask him, since he knows."  
  
"I was attempting to secure a bucket for you. After all, even at Bridewell they supply prisoners with buckets."  
  
Ted rolled his eyes. "Know that from personal experience, do you?"  
  
Connor looked down his nose at Ted. "Yes."  
  
Haytham volunteered, "As I recall, the bucket they gave you was more frightening than all the prisoners combined."  
  
"I suppose so, as I was not afraid of any of them, but I avoided that."  
  
Ted pointed at Connor. "You've been in jail?"  
  
Connor opened his mouth to reply, but Haytham broke in with, "Your mom!" and smirked. In his alcove, Desmond silently applauded Haytham's increasing fluency with 21st century juvenile insults.  
  
Ted went white, then red. "That's beside the point!"  
  
"And so is Connor's experience."  
  
"I was, of course, cleared of all charges," Connor said quietly. "Including those trumped up by certain Templars."  
  
"You had  _your own son_  imprisoned on false charges?!" Ted squawked.  
  
"I didn't put him in prison, he got himself in there."  
  
"Chasing  _your_  counterfeiter," Connor volunteered.  
  
Haytham waved that off irritably. "And I didn't know he was my son until I actually saw him up close. And smelled his cell." He pinched his nose theatrically. "Anyway, it all worked out for everyone except Hickey."  
  
Connor said with just a hint of sarcasm, "And what a loss to your fine organization he must have been.... Do you know what I have noticed, Father?"  
  
"Do tell me what you've noticed, son."  
  
"Only that, this house was owned by a member of our family, but it has not burned down."  
  
"What an astute observation! Although, to be honest, if it started burning right now, I could probably help quite a bit." Haytham was crossing his legs like a second-grader waiting for a hall pass to the bathroom.  
  
"Are you talking about wanting a damn bucket again??" Ted sounded really annoyed. "Use a damn corner or something."  
  
Haytham looked shocked and horrified. "I rather think not!!"  
  
Connor added, "He may be a Templar, but he does not stoop so low as to defile even the caverns under his father's house."  
  
"Thank you, son."  
  
"Anytime, Father."  
  
"It pains me to know that my countrymen have looked down on your mother's people for so long, when it's clear that your society at least teaches its children the common human decency of providing those imprisoned with basic sanitation--"  
  
"All right, all right, go get the obnoxious Templar a damn bucket to piss in!" Ted ordered one of the other Assassin guards, the one who had been occasionally chuckling under his breath at the conversation. "This unnatural mutual admiration society you two have going is making me sick. Templars and Assassins should not get along."  
  
Haytham coughed, but it sounded strangely like he was saying "Altair".  
  
Desmond had been silently trying to convince Jimmy to stay concealed, and finally succeeded, and sidled out to greet his ancestors. "Whassup, yo?"  
  
Connor stared at him blankly. Ted glowered. Haytham smirked. The amused Assassin returned with the bucket, and Ted opened the door, pushed the bucket through, and slammed the door shut, locking it quickly. Connor shouldered Ted aside to stand in front of the door, back to the bars, and nodded at Desmond to take his place beside him.  
  
"What do you two think you're doing?"  
  
"Um, giving the man some privacy."  
  
Haytham called out, "You fellows argue loudly for a few minutes, please. The louder the better."  
  
Ted sighed, frustrated. "Why can't you see this? It's so simple! He is a  _Templar_  and we're all Assassins. I should think it ought to be obvious that we should just  _assassinate_  him."  
  
Desmond argued, "But he hasn't done anything bad in, like, years! Doesn't that  _almost_  make him innocent?"  
  
Ted shook his head. "How do you know he's not just plotting to wait until your guard is down to do something horrible? Templars do that, you know. They act like normal people for years and then all of a sudden they kill someone they've been aiming at the whole time."  
  
Desmond snapped, "Yeah, and Assassins never do that, obviously, because it's not like there's a verb for that exact thing that got named after the Assassins."  
  
Ted rolled his eyes. "You know there's a difference. We only kill when necessary."  
  
"Oh wait, I've heard this one before." Desmond reeled off a string of Arabic, and received only blank stares from all the Assassins. "Uh. I mean. 'Here we seek to promote peace, but murder is our means' and then 'We who celebrate the sanctity of life and then promptly take it from those we deem our enemies'."  
  
Ted scowled. Connor looked mildly amused, and Haytham chuckled right behind Desmond, and clapped him on the shoulder through the bars. Desmond jumped. "Ugh, Pops! Not with the pee hands!"  
  
"Sorry, lad, I don't really have proper facilities to wash up in here." He reached through the bars and tried to wipe his hands on Ted's robes.  
  
"That was fairly juvenile, Father."  
  
"You'll forgive me for being annoyed at being deprived of the capability of basic hygiene."  
  
"Perhaps."  
  
Desmond was shaking his head in disbelief. "Am I the only one who finds it totally ironic that in a room full of Assassins, the only ones who have any knowledge of, ya know, the stuff written by Altair himself, about the philosophy of the Assassins, are a Templar and his family? Like don't you guys study any philosophy here? Any Assassin history? What kind of Assassin training place is this anyway?"  
  
Haytham chimed in, "I learnt a fair bit of philosophy before my tenth birthday even though I never heard the word Assassin until much later. ...I daresay my life would have been quite different if I'd had a name to match to what I was taught." He chuckled. "But  _I_  might have been the same...How does it go? 'One may be two things, opposite in every way, simultaneously'?" Desmond nodded.  
  
"We don't have to go by every word of a man who's been dead for centuries. This isn't a religion," Ted objected. "You don't get bonus points for quoting him like he's scripture."  
  
"Yeah, but you should at least know the ideas he talks about 'cause they're still relevant to all Assassins everywhere."  
  
Connor spoke up, "My Mentor and I have discussed these contradictions as well...how can you justify to yourself the taking of lives if you do not understand the potential hypocrisy?"  
  
Haytham added, "How do you decide who to kill? What if I wasn't a Templar but some ordinary man, would you have locked me up like this? How do you decide that I deserve to die?"  
  
"How many Assassins have  _you_  killed?"  
  
"In the past decade?  _None_. I'm sure you understand that a man may change and improve and become a better man. Or at least, he may tire of war, and decide that he doesn't feel like killing people just because they're on the opposite side."  
  
"You just haven't had any Assassins around to kill. Because you killed them all."  
  
"Oh yes, except for these two right here, who by the way are sometimes annoying enough to make me pull my hair out. And that damnable Mentor of Connor's. You'd like him, Ted, he's reasonable like you."  
  
Before Ted could reply, one of the Assassin guards said, "Oh, good, our relief. I'm looking forward to some peace and quiet."  
  
The other guard laughed. "I haven't heard this much bickering since my husband and my mother had to take care of my daughter together when I was laid up sick after having her."  
  
"Well, your husband, he's got a mouth on him, hasn't he?"  
  
"Yes, well, sometimes that's a good thing."  
  
"I'll bet it is."  
  
The two chuckled and continued chatting as they walked away, and an Assassin approached with two novices. Desmond recognized Mary, James, and Jimmy. Mary brought a tray of food, and Ted reached for it. "Thanks, I'm starving."  
  
"If you're starving, go eat! This is for the prisoner who can't go fetch his own dinner."  
  
"Honestly, Mary! This is ridiculous."  
  
"I'm not going to starve a man to death just because you think he should die. Now open the door already."  
  
Ted fussed with the keys and unlocked the door, and Mary handed the tray to Haytham. "There's a damp cloth to clean up with and a little piece of soap."  
  
He set the tray down and bowed with the utmost sincerity. "My deepest gratitude."  
  
She smiled, looking charmed. Ted looked like he was about to vomit. "All right, stop flirting with my sister."  
  
Haytham smirked. "You must have missed her flirting with me last night." He took the damp cloth and soap and washed his hands and face, sighing with relief, before starting in on his food.  
  
Ted looked half-apoplectic. "You  **didn't**! This is the man responsible for the death of your fiance, and you were just... _throwing yourself_  at him?!"  
  
Mary raised her eyebrows. "You know, I don't actually think he is. Responsible for his death, that is."  
  
"If I am, though, I do apologize most humbly and beg your pardon."  
  
Connor rolled his eyes and shook his head. James was leaning against the wall, ready to enjoy the show, and Jimmy was trying to keep his face hidden with the hood while inching around to be by Desmond and Connor.  
  
Desmond volunteered, "She threw herself at Connor first, if it makes any difference." Mary rolled her eyes at him and stuck out her tongue.  
  
Ted practically shrieked, "I can't believe you, Mary!"  
  
Mary crossed her arms over her chest. "I can't believe  _you_ , Ted. Whatever Haytham and his Templars did fifteen years ago, he came here as a  _guest_  and asked for our  _hospitality_. And you were practically throwing yourself at him too last night, and don't you deny it! 'Ooh, I wish you were my brother! I love Kenways!'" Ted spluttered inarticulately, and Mary raised her voice above his. "Speaking of people named Kenway, you know that our family owes his family a debt we can never repay, and you know what Mum would say if she found out  _you_ of all people wanted to kill 'Edward's little boy, wasn't he so darling, I wonder what he's doing now, if you ever meet him you be sure to tell him what a great man his father was. A philandering drunkard and a blithering idiot at times, but better by half than anyone else I've ever known.'"  
  
Connor looked shocked. "Philandering...drunkard?"  
  
Haytham asked Mary quietly, "What did your fiance look like?"  
  
"Black hair, very pointy nose... he was a short man, and slender. My son takes after him... James, show the man your face." Her voice cracked a little.  
  
James complied warily, and Haytham looked thoughtfully at him. "Ah. Yes, I remember. Child, you can thank Connor here for killing the man who killed your father."  
  
Connor shifted uncertainly from foot to foot. "You are welcome."  
  
"And who sent that man?" Ted asked. "Who trained him and commanded him?"  
  
"You wish me to take responsibility for this man's death? Fine, I do. For continuing this stupid fucking war we have going!" Haytham rattled the bars, raising his voice. "For being an idiot, for being deceived and deluded as a lad, for following my father's murderer and believing his lies. A thousand thousand pardons could never erase the things I've done, but they also can't undo what my son's done, or what you've done, or what anyone's ever done in the entire history of the world! Don't pretend to have the moral high ground when you're wallowing around in the muck right here beside me! I offered you no harm, but I will not stand idly by while you claim to be a better man than I! We have more in common than we differ on, yet we consider each other mortal enemies and decry each other's deeds, as the body count mounts from both sides. Some day, if we can muster a little intelligence between us, Assassin and Templar will be just words, and we who wish to improve the world will discard those words and work together. Oh, forget it. This bickering and infighting is pointless. You're determined to divide the world in two and never acknowledge that the edge between one side and the other is never, ever sharply defined." He rolled his eyes. "I can't count the number of people who think I'm one of you lot, anyway. I even have the damn  _name_  of an Assassin. Only a silly and over-eager convert to the Assassins would hold his newborn son in the middle of London, think on his English and Welsh heritage, and give the child an  _Arabic_  name."  
  
Ted was gawping at him. Jimmy was gazing at Haytham with rapt hero-worship, and Desmond was smirking. James just looked bored. Connor pointed out, "Perhaps you would not be mistaken for an Assassin so often if you did not so ostentatiously arm yourself with Assassin weapons adorned with Assassin symbols."  
  
"That's probably true. And fighting at your side most likely doesn't help either." Haytham picked up the piece of bread from his dinner tray and sat down on his crate, eating. "'S good bread," he added. "My compliments to the baker."  
  
Ted finally found words. "Fine, perhaps  _you_  are not the devil incarnate. But there are many truly evil Templars."  
  
"I never denied that. In fact, we're heading for one of those to rid the world of him. But there are also many horrible Assassins, who pervert your Creed to serve themselves."  
  
Desmond offered, "Seems to me the problem is douchebags. I mean, we're all douchebags 'cause we kill people. But mega douchebags...I've seen a few on both sides. I've been tortured by Templars," he told Ted, "but I still trust  _this_  Templar. Maybe it's partly because he's family. But I don't think it's all that." He didn't see the momentary softening of Haytham's face.  
  
Ted threw his hands into the air in frustration. "Look, I'll admit the Templars want what they  _say_  is a better world, but it's a world where everyone is enslaved to their will and nobody has any freedom."  
  
Haytham looked at Ted for a minute, then rattled the bars of his cell meaningfully.  
  
"That's always a good counter-argument," Desmond observed. "Do they teach you that in Templar school?"

Ted eyed Desmond, then Connor, then Mary. "There's no way out of this where we kill the damn Templar, is there?"  
  
"Not without angering me," Connor replied.  
  
"Not without being a--what did he call it? Mega douchebag?" Mary added.  
  
"Fine. You know what, I can't stand this anymore. You're free to go, Templar. Just get the hell out of here." He unlocked the cell and swung the door open. "I never want to see your stupid handsome face again. And stay away from my sister!"  
  
Haytham promptly ignored him and bowed over Mary's hand, kissing her knuckles. "My deepest thanks, Mary Burleigh. As the Assassins say, or used to, safety and peace to you and your family."  
  
"And to you and yours, Haytham Kenway." She looked more than a little smitten. "Ah...my son. He wished to accompany you..."  
  
"As it is  _my_  son's ship we sail on, it is his permission that is needed..."  
  
Connor looked the young man up and down. "Are you prepared to work hard?"  
  
James scowled, but nodded. "Anything to get away from here." Mary tried very hard not to look hurt, and her son looked at his toes. "Sorry, Mother, I just...I don't want to stay here."  
  
"I understand." She hugged him tightly, and he squirmed.  
  
"I'm not a baby!"  
  
"To me, you'll always be my baby."  
  
"UGH!"  
  
"Behave yourself. And be polite! And be sure to use a toothpick after you eat! Stay away from rum and strange women! Don't get yellow fever!"  
  
"MOTHER..."  
  
"And if you see your Gran on your travels, give her a kiss from me."  
  
"I will, I will."  
  
She brushed imaginary dust off his shoulders and bit her lip. "There you go. I love you, my little lizard." She rumpled his hair.  
  
"MOTHER!!"  
  
"Sorry, sorry, you're a big grownup, I forgot, James."  
  
He huffed and stalked over to stand with Desmond and Connor and Jimmy, glowering at Ted.  
  
Haytham put on his hat and coat, looking dapper as ever, and tipped his hat ever so slightly to Mary as he passed. James made a face at his mother, and she cuffed him on the shoulder. "Behave!"  
  
Connor sounded tired and aggrieved. "Now that that has been settled, we still need to find a place to maroon my former crewman."  
  
"Ted probably would rather deal with a straight-up child molester than Pops," Desmond volunteered.  
  
"Ha, no thank you. Dump your garbage elsewhere."  
  
Mary looked thoughtfully at Jimmy, who was trying not to be obviously hanging off of Haytham's arm. "Try going south and west from here. There's a lot of good little islands to strand unwanted tosspots on."  
  
Connor nodded. "Thank you. I shall. Before we go, I need to restock my ship--"  
  
"Already done." She drew close to add, "and that stuff of your grandfather's is in a trunk by your cabin. Your first mate looked very suspicious."  
  
"Oh! I just remembered, I left Connor's coat behind--" Desmond whispered.  
  
"No, it's in the trunk too."  
  
"You're beautiful!" He gave her a very Ezio-esque kiss on the cheek, then rushed off to join his ancestors and the two teenagers. She smiled and touched her cheek, watching until she couldn't see them anymore through the trees.  
  
Ted rolled his eyes and stood beside her. "Right then. Back to work."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anne Bonny had two kids with Calico Jack, one who was basically given away to family members in Cuba and wound up going by the name Cunningham, and the one who saved her from hanging. (In AC4, this child dies.) After leaving behind her pirate ways, she settled down in South Carolina and married a man named Joseph Burleigh, with whom she proceeded to have 10 children. She died in 1782, far outliving her pirate contemporaries. Not bad for an illegitimate girl from Ireland who'd had 2 children and gone through 2 husbands, 1 girlfriend (highly likely), and a death sentence, before her 20th birthday. 
> 
> If you think about it, having a bunch of children was a good survival strategy for her. If her past caught up with her at any point, she'd be "up the duff" and avoid the noose again. Piracy wasn't as good a job as it had been, and by settling down and marrying, she not only had access to whatever money and property her husband had, but she could probably persuade her father to un-disown her now that she was "respectable". 
> 
> I can't imagine that she would be happy to be a meek little housewife, and I'm sure she kept her children in line a lot better than her father had kept her in line, while also probably taking over significant amounts of both her father's and her husband's businesses. She was a unique kind of badass, a very young woman claiming power in traditionally male pursuits while still maintaining a thoroughly female identity--she never dressed as a man, she never depended on a man other than to get her physically where she needed to go (from Ireland to South Carolina with her father; to Nassau with her first husband, James Bonny; all around the Caribbean with Calico Jack; from prison to South Carolina with probably her father's help and money).
> 
> I'm not dissing on Mary Read because I adore me some Mary Read, but Mary got everything she got as a man, not as a woman, and Anne was able to be a woman and claim rights and power that women usually couldn't claim. 
> 
> So I decided that, in the Assassin's Creed universe, she probably told her kids the coolest bedtime stories about pirates and assassins. And she probably named them after people she slept with in her wild pirate days. (But her husband probably didn't know that, obviously.) And I thought that a couple of her kids might have decided to become assassins, maybe the ones named after assassins, hence Ted and Mary Burleigh, the siblings at cross purposes. 
> 
> Poor Ted is very aware of his shortcomings, chief among them extreme seasickness, which is very embarrassing when you're the son of a famous pirate. He also has a little bit of a problem with alcohol, which makes him overly friendly and very sincerely emotional. He doesn't actually leave Inagua very much, and whoever is in charge of the Caribbean assassins has made him both the administrator of the island and the head instructor of the little novices. He's really good at his jobs, even if he is a bit of a stick in the mud, and he feels it's his charge to protect the island and its inhabitants. Especially from sneaky Templars. 
> 
> Mary Burleigh is more of a free spirit like her mom. She joined the assassins because it was a way that a woman could get to travel and do good things and not wither away as a housewife. Which is not to imply that she doesn't believe 100% in being an Assassin, because she totally does. But she has a more complex view of it than her brother does. She also enjoys the greater sexual freedom of "everything is permitted", although she was at one point madly in love with a colonial Assassin and they planned to marry. Inconveniently, she was pregnant in 1763, when the Colonial Rite of the Templars was hunting down and killing Assassins, (possibly not strictly under the orders of the miserably depressed Grand Master, who was very busy moping about his dead father, dead BFF, dead ex, and sister he couldn't figure out how to talk to) and Mary wound up narrowly escaping to Inagua to give birth.
> 
> Her fiance was supposed to meet up with her there, but was ambushed and killed by Templars on the way. Mary grieved for him, but wasn't mired in anger like Ted was. And, of course, she named her son after her own namesake's male alter ego. (And also after her own brother who died, because honestly do you think there's any way Anne Bonny would NOT have named her child after her BFF and possibly girlfriend who had been her only companion in prison and had just died horribly right in front of her??) 
> 
> I have all these notes on these two quasi-OCs and I don't think they'll show up again in the story. Sigh...


End file.
